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THE BOOK OF 

PRINCES AND PRINCESSES 



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EDITED BY ANDREW LANG 
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I CAniLL)^-TEU5 KLf\T/^LE 3j | 



THE BOOK OF 
PRLNCES AND PRINCESSES 



A. '"^ BY 

MRS. LANG 

EDITED BY ANDREW LANG 




WITH EIGHT COLOURED PLATES AND 
NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD 



LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO 

91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 

LONDON, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 

1908 



1 



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V 



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UIBRARY of congress! 
twu liODies nectt<«(;« 

eopt a. 



Copyright, 1908 

BY 

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 



All rights reserved 



The Plimpton Press Nonvood Mass. V S.A. 



DEDICATED TO 
ELIZABETH ANGELA MARGARET BOWES LYON 

BY 

THE AUTHORESS 



PREFACE 

All the stories about Princes and Princesses in this book 
are true stories, and were written by Mrs. Lang, out of 
old books of history. There are some children who make 
life difficult by saying, first that stories about fairies are 
true, and that they Hke fairies; and next that they do 
not like true stories about real people, who lived long 
ago. I am quite ready to grant that there really are such 
things as fairies, because, though I never saw a fairy, any 
more than I have seen the little animals which lecturers 
call molecules and ions, still I have seen people who have 
seen fairies — truthful people. Now I never knew a 
lecturer who ventured to say that he had seen an ion or 
a molecule. It is well known, and written in a true book, 
that the godmother of Joan of Arc had seen fairies, and 
nobody can suppose that such a good woman would tell 
her godchild what was not true — for example, that the 
squire of the parish was in love with a fairy and used to 
meet her in the moonhght beneath a beautiful tree. In 
fact, if we did not beheve in fairy stories, who would care 
to read them? Yet only too many children disHke to read 
true stories, because the people in them were real, and 
the things actually happened. Is not this very strange? 
And grown-ups are not much wiser. They would rather 
read a novel than Professor Mommsen's 'History of 
Rome'! 

How are we to explain this reluctance to read true 
stories? Is it because children are obliged, whether they 
like it or not, to learn lessons which, to be sure, are often 
dry and disagreeable, and history books are among their 



viii PREFACE 

lessons. Now Nature, for some wise purpose probably, 
made most children very greatly dislike lesson books. 
When I was about eight years old I was always reading 
a book of true stories called ' The Tales of a Grandfather ' : 
no book could be more pleasant. It was in Httle dumpy 
volumes that one could carry in his pocket. But when 
I was sent to school they used this book as a school book, 
in one large ugly volume, and at school I never read 
it at all, and could not answer questions in it, but 
made guesses, which were not often right. The truth 
seems to be that we hate doing what we must do; 
and Sir Walter Scott himself, who wTote the book, 
particularly detested reading or wTiting what he was obliged 
to read or write, and always wanted to be doing some- 
thing else. 

This book about Princes and Princesses is not one 
which a child is obliged to read. Indeed the stories are 
not put in order, beginning with the princes who Hved 
longest ago and coming down gradually to people who 
lived nearest our own time. The book opens with the 
great Napoleon Bonaparte, w^ho died when some very old 
people still living were alive. Napoleon was not born a 
prince, far from it; his father was only a poor gentleman on 
a wild rough Httle island. But he made himself not merely 
a king, but the greatest of all emperors and generals in 
war. He is not held up as a person whom every boy should 
try to imitate, but it is a truth that Napoleon always re- 
mained a boy in his heart. He liked to make up stories 
of himself, doing wonderful things which even he was 
unable to do. When he was a boy he played at being a 
general, making snow fortresses and besieging them, 
just as many boys do. And when he was a man he dreamed 
of conquering ail the East, Asia, and India, and Australia; 
and he tried to do all that, but it was too much even for 
him. 

He used to think that he would write a new religious 
book, like Mahomet, and ride on a dromedary to conquer 



PREFACE ix 

India, with his own book in his hand. Can anything be 
more like a boy's fancy? He even set out in the direction 
of India, but he stopped to besiege a little weak ruinous 
town called Acre, in the Holy Land, and the Turks and 
English, under Sir Sidney Smith, defeated him, and made 
him turn back, so that, later, he never came nearer India 
than Moscow, whence he was driven back to France by 
the snow and frost and the Russian army. After that 
he never had much luck, though he had won so many 
battles, and made himself an Emperor, and married an 
Emperor's daughter, hke a poor young man in a fairy tale. 
I am sure that no fairy prince ever did such extraordinary 
things of all sorts as Napoleon; but another story 
shows how his only son was very unfortunate, and had 
a very short and unhappy life, always longing to be 
like his famous father. No doubt he might have been 
happy and fortunate if Napoleon — like the great boy 
he was — had not tried to do more than was possible even 
for himself. It was like a great boy to take no trouble 
to learn difhcult languages, and to write such a bad hand 
that his marshals and generals could not read his notes 
written on the battlefield, and could not be certain what 
he wanted them to do. Now the Duke of Wellington, 
though not so wonderful a general as Napoleon, wrote 
a very good hand, when shot and shell were falling all 
round him, and there could be no mistake as to what he 
meant. 

In fairy stories the princes and princesses are not always 
fortunate and happy, though they are always brave, good, 
beautiful, and deserving. If they were always happy 
and fortunate, nobody would care to read about them; 
the stories would be very dull. For example, Prince 
Meritorio was the eldest son of Meritorio III., King of 
Pacifica. He was born healthy, brave, and clever. At 
the age of twenty-one years, all of them spent serenely 
in learning his lessons, including fencing and fortification. 
Prince Meritorio married the eldest daughter of King 



X PREFACE 

Benevolo, of the happy island of Crete. The two king- 
doms were always at peace; on the death of Meritorio 
III. and Benevolo II. Prince Meritorio came to the throne 
of both countries. He had eleven sons, who used to play 
the Eleven of the island of Crete and beat them; and 
when Prince Meritorio died, at a great age, beloved by all 
his subjects, he was succeeded by his eldest son, Prince 
Sereno. 

No doubt Prince Meritorio was happy and fortunate, but 
as he never had any troubles or sorrows, as he married his 
first and only love with the full consent of the dear and 
royal parents of both, never was changed into a rabbit 
by a wicked magician, never had to fight a dragon or giant, 
never was a starving, banished man, but continually had 
his regular meals, why, the Life of Prince Meritorio is 
not worth reading. Nobody cares a penny about him, 
any more than they care about George II., who was a brave 
man, and as fortunate as a king can be, and yet we prefer 
to read about Prince Charhe, who was nearly as unfor- 
tunate as King George was lucky. 

Even Naploeon himself, with all his wonderful victories, 
is more interesting because he was defeated at last, and 
died like an imprisoned eagle, a captive on a little island, 
than he would be if he had been constantly fortunate and 
enormously fat. 

It cannot be said that the princes and princesses in 
this book were too happy. The Princess Jeanne was 
perhaps the luckiest, and she had troubles enough while 
still a little girl, with being nearly forced to marry a prince 
whom she did not want. Indeed all young princesses 
and princes were much to be pitied, when they were 
being vexed with marrying before they were out of the 
nursery or the school room. They were obliged to marry 
first, and fall in love afterwards if they could, which is quite 
the wrong arrangement. Think of King Hacon's mother, 
too, who was obliged to prove that she was good by carrying 
a red-hot iron in her hands without being burned. The 



PREFACE xi 

best little girl now alive will be wise not to try this experi- 
ment, if she is accused of breaking anything which she 
did not break. Then poor Marie Louise was obliged 
to marry a king who was little better than an idiot; and 
no amount of diamonds, nor all the gold of Peru, could 
console her for Hving such a strange life as hers was in a 
foreign country with such a very foolish king. However, 
he was fond of her, at least, whereas Henry VIII. was not 
fond of his many wives for more than a very short time, 
and then he cut their heads off, or sent them away. It 
was a wise princess who said, when he asked her to marry 
him, that if she had two heads he would be welcome to one of 
them, but as she had only one she would prefer some other 
monarch. The Princess Henriette, too, after all her 
wanderings, when she was as poor as a goose girl in a 
fairy tale, found a very unsatisfactory prince to marry 
her at last, and perhaps was not sorry to die young. Truly 
they all had strange adventures enough; even Henry VII., 
though, when once he was king, he took good care to have 
no more adventures. 

The story of Mary, Queen of Scots, who had so much 
unhappiness, is not told here, because very little is known 
of her childhood. But there are two tales of her child- 
hood worth remembering. When she was a very little 
girl in Scotland, the Governor of the country was Car- 
dinal Beaton. He was a Catholic, and Henry VIII., 
being a Protestant, was always at war with Scotland, and 
often tried to seize Mary when she was a little child. Now 
she had been told a fairy tale about the Red Etin of Ire- 
land, a kind of red ogre, who stole a king's daughter, 'the 
flower of fair Scotland,' and beat her every day. So when 
Mary, being about three years old, first saw Cardinal 
Beaton in all his scarlet clothes, she thought that he 
was the Red Etin of Ireland, and was terribly fright- 
ened, crying, 'Kill Red Etin! Kill Red Etin!' They 
did kill him, presently, but not because of her com- 
mand. 



Xll 



PREFACE 



The other story is merely that when she was about 
ten years old, or not so much, she was taken across the 
sea with her four httle friends, the four Maries, to France, 
to marry the king's son. They had a very stormy voyage, 
and she was the only one of the company who was not 
sea-sick. So she was very merry at the expense of all 
the others. No doubt a saintly Httle princess would have 
been sorry for their sufferings; still, perhaps many httle 
girls would have laughed. Many princes have had dis- 
agreeable uncles, Hke Crookedback Richard; indeed one 
might think, like a little girl who had read history books, 
that 'all uncles are villains.^ But perhaps no prince 
ever had such a terrible ogre of a father as Prince Fred- 
erick of Prussia, who became the great king and general. 
Though his father was very particular about making 
Frederick clean and neat, we do not find that he ever had 
a bath, or did more than wash his hands and face. In- 
deed Frederick's father was a horrible ogre in every way, 
though perhaps it was not unnatural that he did not like 
the prince to be perpetually playing the flute, even when 
out hunting! 

After all, when a child thinks of his own father and 
mother, and his excellent uncles and aunts, he may be glad 
that he was not born to be a prince, and be hidden from his 
enemies in a bundle of hay, like Duke Richard, or dressed 
as a Uttle boy, w^hen she is a little girl; or locked up for a 
year in a cold sanctuary; or be smothered in the Tower; 
or run all the many uncomfortable risks of all these poor 
royal children. The greater a man or woman is, the more 
terrible are the falls from greatness, as in the case of the 
most unhappy of all queens, Marie Antoinette. To be a 
good king a man must be far better and wiser than other 
men, far more clever too; if he is not, he does more mis- 
chief, and probably has to bear more misfortunes, hke 
Richard II., than any ordinary person. When we read 
about kings Hke Charles II., who only Hved to amuse himself; 
or Charles VII. of France, who was little better — and not 



PREFACE xiii 

nearly so amusing — and think how many people far 
fitter to be kings died for these unworthy princes, we begin 
to wonder at kingship, at making a man king merely 
because he is his father's son. However, to consider thus 
is to consider too curiously, and certainly the lives of princes 
and princesses have been full of great adventures, and 
are rather more interesting to read about than the lives of 
the sons and daughters of the Presidents of Republics. 
Nobody tries to run away with them; they have not to 
be dressed up as beggar boys, or hidden in bundles of 
hay, and their fathers never burn their books, break their 
flutes, shut them up in prison, and threaten to cut their 
heads off. 

Thus we learn that there is a good side to everything, 
if we know where to look for it, which is a very comfort- 
ing reflection. But only a truly sagacious person knows 
where to look for it, if the misfortune happens to himself. 

Meanwhile let British children remember that their 
forefathers were loyal even to kings not of the best — "at 
least, as far as they were able" — and that we have in 
our time been blessed with the best Queen who ever lived. 
So, as the old song says: 

Here's a health tmto his Majesty! 
And he who will not drink his health , 
We wish him neither wit nor wealth, 
But only a rope to hang himself! 



CONTENTS 



Napoleon 










I 


His Majesty the King of Rome 








28 


The Princess Jeanne 








56 


Hacon the King . 










79 


Mi Reinaf Mi Reinaf . 










99 


Henriette the Siege Baby 










129 


The Red Rose 










157 


The White Rose . 










172 


Richard the Fearless 










198 


Frederick and Wilhelmine 










214 


Une Reine Malheureuse 










249 


The 'Little Queen' 










275 


Two Little Girls and their Mother 








311 


The Troubles of the Princess 1 


^lizab 


eth 






328 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

COLOURED PLATES 

{Engraved by Messrs. Andre df Sleigh, Ltd., Bushey) 

Camilla tells her Tale {p. 4.) .... Frontispiece 

The Oubliettes to face p. 58 . 

Inga trusts the Baby to Erlend .... " 80, 

Marie Louise makes her Petition to the King *' 104 

The Red Rose for Lancaster, the White Rose 
for York , '' 158 "^ 

' You are the first King who has entered Sanc- 
tuary^ . '' 176'' 

William Longsword is proud of his Son Rich- 
ard " 200 ' 

Isabel 'in the dark evenings' " 276 



FULL-PAGE PLATES 

' Why did they ever let these beasts enter ?' .to face p. 20 
'Open, I want Papa.' 'Sire, I must not let in 

your Majesty' " 34 ^ 

Inga endures the Ordeal of the Hot Iron . " 92 / 

Richard's last Charge on Bosworth Field . " 168 -^ 
Frederick practises his Flute even when out 

Hunting '' 224 " 



xvili LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frederick bids farewell to Katte . . . to jace p. 2^0 

Marie Antoinette and Mozart . . . . '' 250 

'Led by the King and the Dauphin^ . . . '' 262 
Marie Antoinette goes Hunting with the 

Dauphin " 270 

ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT 



PAGE 



Bonaparte comma^ids his first Army 9 

Bonaparte hears the ' Marseillaise' for the first time . 18 

Bonaparte in the Battery of the Fearless .... 26 

Feeding the Gazelles with Tobacco 31 

Napoleon shows the Portrait to the Generals ... 39 

Jeanne and the Kittg 63 

Jeamte^s riide^iess to the Duke of Cleves .... 70 

The Cardinal reads the King's Letter to Jeanne . . 74 

* To make him grow taller ' 84 

Marie Louise receives the Visits of Condolence . . 102 

Two Spanish Gentlemen rescue the Queen . . . 116 

The Camarera Mayor gets her Ears boxed! . . . 120 
The Queen envies the Flemish Skaters . . . .127 

' If capture is sure blow up the vessel,' she said 131 

Lady Dalkeith's Journey to Dover 135 

'She only waved him out of her path' 143 

'Here, Madame,' said Mazarin, 'are the prizes for a 

lottery' 149 

Herbert brings little Henry to his Wife's Tent . . 161 

The King shows Elizabeth her Map of Destiny . . 178 

' Desolate and dismayed' 187 

The Queen entrusts little Richard to the Cardinal 191 

'Elizabeth goes to the inn to meet the conspirators' 195 

The Truss of Hay 209 

The Wig-inspector at Work '. 215 



ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT 



PAGE 



^Good gracious, what a figure! Why, she looks like a 

little dwarfs 220 

^ He stamped it down with his heavy boot' . . . 229 

Brother and Sister meet again 248 

She delighted in her Dancing Lessons 257 

The Swiss Guard present Arms to Marie Antoinette 267 

^ Look, look!' she cried to her brothers and sisters . 278 

Richard and Isabel come to London 284 

The King stops the Duel . 290 

Richard's last Farewell to Isabel 295 

King Richard, Duke Henry and Math the Greyhound 298 



NAPOLEON 

If you look out of your window in a clear dawn on the 
French Riviera you may, if you are fortunate, see, far 
away to the south, a faint mountain range hanging on 
the sea, and if you do see it, it is a sight so beautiful that 
you will never forget it. The mountain range belongs to 
Corsica, and under its shadow was born the most won- 
derful man the world has ever seen — Napoleon. 

In the year 1769 two babies were born in widely distant 
places, both destined to spend the best years of their lives 
in a life and death struggle with each other. The birthday 
of Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was 
on May i, and his home was an Irish castle; while Napo- 
leon Buonaparte saw the light in a small house in the 
little town of Ajaccio, in Corsica. Napoleon's ancestors 
came over from Tuscany early in the sixteenth century, 
and found in the island a large number of colonists like 
themselves, some Italian and some Greek, but all of them 
seeking refuge from the foreign armies which for fifty 
years had been trying to parcel out Italy among them- 
selves. Though distant only a few hours' sail from its 
coasts, the inhabitants of the island were as different 
from those of the mainland as if the whole world lay be- 
tween them. In Italy men were lazy, yet impulsive, 
lovers of beauty, of art, of literature, and of luxury; in 
Corsica they were gloomy, silent, watchful, living hardly, 
careless of everything which had not to do with their daily 
lives. 

Their hatreds were not only deep and strong, but lasting. 
As in old Rome, it was the rule that he 'who slew the 
2 1 



2 . NAPOLEON 

slayer' should himself be slain, and these blood feuds 
never died out. No wonder that a traveller was struck 
with the sight of nearly the whole population wearing 
mourning. Almost everyone was related to the rest, and 
in almost every family one of its members had recently 
fallen a victim to a vendetta — what we call a 'blood feud.' 
Periods of mourning were long, too, often lasting for ten 
years, sometimes for life. So the country was dismal to 
look at, with the high bare mountains shadowing all. 
While in Italy things moved fast, and new customs seemed 
best, in Corsica they seldom altered. The father was in 
some ways as absolute over his wife and children as in 
ancient Rome. He gave his orders and they were obeyed, 
no matter how hard they might be or how much disliked. 
His wife was not expected or wished to be a companion 
to her husband or a teacher to her children. Even if a 
lady by birth, like the mother of Napoleon, she worked 
as hard as any servant, for there was little money in Cor- 
sica, and people cultivated their ground so that they might 
have produce to exchange with their neighbours — olive 
oil for wine, chestnuts for corn, fish for garments woven 
by the women, from the hair of the mountain sheep or 
goats. 

The life led by both boys and girls in Corsica made 
them grow old early, and Charles Buonaparte, Napoleon's 
father, married at eighteen the beautiful Laetitia Ramolino, 
four years younger than himself. Charles had studied law 
in the University of Pisa, and, unlike his fellow-country- 
men, was able to talk French, so that his friends looked 
up to him with awe, and often consulted him about their 
affairs, which greatly pleased him, as he loved to think 
himself a person of importance. He was both restless 
and ambitious, and in the disturbed state of the island 
he saw his chance for advancement. The Corsicans had 
lately risen against the rule of Genoa, under the leadership 
of Paoli, who wished to form a Repubhc. But his party 
was not powerful enough of itself to drive out the Gen- 



NAPOLEON ' 3 

oese, so Paoli sent over to Paris to beg the help of France. 
It is curious that his common-sense did not tell him what 
would be the consequence of this step. The French 
arrived, and by their aid the islanders got the upper 
hand, but when the Genoese had sailed away the 
newcomers refused to follow their example. Charles 
Buonaparte had at first been one of the strongest 
partisans of Paoli, but he was not proof against the 
offer of the title of ' Conseiller du Roi,' and of some small 
legal appointments that were given him by the French 
governor. He forsook his former leader and took 
service with the French. Henceforward he was no 
longer 'Buonaparte,' after the Italian manner, but 'Bona- 
parte.' 

So Napoleon, who was born a few months after this 
event, was a Frenchman. He was the fourth child of 
his parents, but only Joseph, a year older than himself, 
was living; and though by-and-by Napoleon completely 
ruled his elder brother, for a long while the two stood 
apart from the younger children, Joseph sharing Napo- 
leon's affections with Marianna, his next sister, who died 
at the age of five. The others who lived were all much 
younger, Lucien, the next, being born in 1775. Madame 
Bonaparte was so much occupied after Napoleon's birth 
with trying to put things straight which had been upset 
by the war that she was forced to get a nurse for him. 
This woman, Camilla Ilari, was the wife of a man who 
picked up a living on the seashore, and all her Hfe was 
devoted to her nursling, whom she always addressed as 
'my son.' 

Napoleon, on his part, fully returned her affection, and 
was never too great or too busy to give her proofs of it. 
Thirty-five years later, when the world was at his feet, 
she sent to say that she wished to be present at his coro- 
nation in Notre Dame. 'There is no one who will be 
more welcome,' was his reply, and when she had made 
the journey and braved the perils of the sea, and weary 



4 NAPOLEON 

days of travel that seem so strange and so long when you 
do not understand a word of what is being said around 
you — when all this was over, and the Tuileries was 
reached, she found Meneval, the Emperor's own secre- 
tary, awaiting her, saying that he was to place himself 
at her orders and to show her everything she wished to 
see. Oh, how happy that old woman was, and what 
stories she had to tell when she got back to Corsica! She 
had long talks with 'Madame Mere,' as the Emperor's 
mother was now called, and with all her children, 
one by one. Even Marianna — or Elise, to give her 
the new name she thought more elegant — and Caro- 
hne, the youngest, forgot for a few minutes how grand 
they had become, and laughed as Camilla reminded 
them of the old days and the scoldings she had given 
them, while Paulette, who gave herself no airs, but 
only wanted admiration and petting, asked fifty 
questions all at once, and never waited for the an- 
swers ! 

Of course, Camilla had no intention of going home 
without seeing the wife of 'mon fils,' and Napoleon's 
wife, Josephine, sent for her into her rooms, and, though 
she could not make out a word that Camilla said, smiled 
and nodded in reply, and presented her with two beau- 
tiful diamonds. Most wonderful of all, His Holiness Pope 
Pius VII. announced that he wished to give her an au- 
dience! Camilla was the proudest woman in the world 
when she received that message, but at the same time 
she was rather frightened. Why, she had never spoken 
to a bishop, and how was she to behave to a Pope ? How- 
ever, M. Meneval, who was the messenger, suggested 
that obedience was her first duty, so Camilla rose up and 
followed him meekly into the apartments of His Holi- 
ness. 

'Be seated, my daughter,' said a gentle voice; and Ca- 
milla, who had knelt down at the threshold, got up slowly, 
and sat very upright in the chair which Meneval placed 



NAPOLEON 5 

for her. For an hour and a half the audience lasted, 
the Pope putting to her all sorts of questions as to Napo- 
leon's infancy and childhood. To begin with she only 
answered in as few words as possible, but gradually she 
ceased to remember where she was and to whom she was 
speaking, and poured forth a torrent of recollections 
about the nurshng whom she loved better than her own 
son. 

'Ah, the Signora Laetitia was a grand lady, and beau- 
tiful as an angel! Yes, there were many children to be 
sure, and much work needing to be done for them, but 
the Signora Laetitia saw to their manners and never 
suffered them to lie, or be greedy or rude to each other. 
Punished? Oh yes, they were punished; in Corsica pun- 
ishments were many, but the children loved their mother 
none the less for that; and had not her Napoleone told 
her only last night how much he had all his life owed 
to the advice of his mother? How the poor darling 
had suffered when he had gone, at five, for a few 
months to a girls' school, and how the horrid httle 
creatures had laughed at him because his stockings would 
not keep up! Did they make him cry? Napoleone? 
She could count on one hand the tears he had shed since 
he was born! Well, it was true she had heard he had 
wept a little when Joseph, whom he loved better than 
anyone in the world, was separated from him at that 
French school where they were together; but then, as 
everyone knew, one tear of Napoleone's was worth 
bucketsful of Joseph's! What friends they were, those 
two, though they did quarrel sometimes! And how, big 
and little, they did love water! If ever you missed them, 
you might be certain they were bathing in one of the 
streams that came down from the mountains, and even 
when they were being driven in state to see their noble 
relations the boys would be sure to wriggle out of the 
carriage and jump into the river with their clothes 
on!' 



6 NAPOLEON 

Not since he was a boy himself had the Pope been so 
well amused, but all kinds of important people were 
waiting to see him, and very unwiUingly he must put a 
stop to Camilla's interesting talk. So, reaching some 
chaplets and rosaries from a table beside him, he held 
them out to her, and signing her to kneel before him, 
he gave her his blessing. A few days after the great cere- 
mony Camilla returned to Corsica laden with gifts, 
and richer by a pension and many vineyards from 
'Napoleone.' 

Like other Corsican ladies Laetitia Bonaparte knew 
nothing of books, probably not even as much as her friend, 
the mother of Madame Junot, who had only read one in 
her whole Hfe, and that was the 'Adventures of Telemaque,' 
which perhaps accounts for her never wishing to read 
another! She wrote very badly, and could not speak even 
her own language, which was Italian, without making 
many mistakes, and in this Napoleon resembled her. In 
spite of all his wars, of his reading, of the people he came 
in contact with, he never succeeded in learning either 
German or English, and was forced to speak Spanish 
through an interpreter. 

It was this inability to 'pick up' languages which made 
him feel so dreadfully lonely when, in 1778, he and Joseph 
were taken by their father to France, and placed at school 
at Autun, Neither of them knew a word of French, but 
Joseph soon managed to learn enough to make himself 
understood, while Napoleon was tongue-tied. For five 
months they were left together, and then the younger boy, 
who was nine, was removed to the great military school 
of Brienne, in Champagne, for which the King had given 
his father a nomination. It was on this occasion that 
he shed the 'few tears' of which Camilla had told the 
Pope. Poor little boy! he had no one he could speak to, 
and hated games unless they had to do with soldiers. His 
schoolfellows did not like him, and thought him sulky 



NAPOLEON 7 

because he spent most of his time by himself. Occa- 
sionally he wrote home, but letters to Corsica cost nineteen 
sous apiece, and he knew that there was not much money 
to spare for postage. 

Now and then he sent a letter to Joseph, in which he 
begs him to do his work and not be lazy; and once he 
writes to his uncle pointing out that it would be a pity to 
make Joseph into a soldier, for he would be no good in 
a fight. And as to this Napoleon could speak with cer- 
tainty, for in all their boyish quarrels Joseph was never 
known to return a blow. One friend he did have, Bour- 
rienne, in after-years his military secretary, who entered 
Brienne only a month after he did, and has written 
memoirs of his own life. But the rest of the boys stood 
aloof, though Napoleon seems to have got on better with 
the masters. When he had been at Brienne four years, 
his father again returned to France to place Marianna, 
who was six, at school at St. Cyr, near Paris, and Lucien, 
who was eight, at Brienne. Napoleon was glad to see 
his father, who died about fifteen months later; but he 
and Lucien were, of course, far apart in the school, and, 
what was more important, they never got on together, 
so that Napoleon was not much less lonely than before. 
Besides, he was fourteen now, and would soon be going 
to the mihtary school in Paris. 

That winter it was very cold, and snow fell heavily in 
Champagne. In England it would have been welcomed 
heartily by the boys, who would have spent hours in 
snowballing each other; but the masters at Brienne never 
thought of this, and gave orders that exercise was to be 
taken in the big hall of the college. Now the hall, which 
only had a fire at one end, looked very dreary, and no- 
body felt incHned to play. The older boys stood round the 
chimney and the younger ones peered disconsolately out 
of the windows, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of blue 
sky. Suddenly young Bonaparte left the fireplace where 



8 NAPOLEON 

he had been leaning, and touched Bourrienne on the 
shoulder. 

*I am not going to stay here,' he said. 'Let us go 
and make a snow castle, and besiege it. Who will 
come ? ' 

'I,' and *I,' and 'I,' they all shouted, and in a moment 
they were all gathered round Napoleon in the courtyard, 
begging him to tell them what to do. 

* Get as many shovels as you can find in the tool house, 
and we will make a castle,' he answered. 'A proper 
castle with a keep, and a donjon and battlements. Then 
we must dig some trenches for cover. When we have 
finished we must garrison the castle, and I will lead the 
attacking party.' Unfortunately, the spades and shovels 
left by the gardeners only numbered about one to every 
fifteen or twenty boys, so they had to take them in turns, 
the others using any tools they could find, or even their 
own hands. All the afternoon they worked without a 
moment's pause, and at sunset, just before the bell for 
lessons sounded, the castle was finished. That night, 
when the Hghts were put out in their cold dormitory, they 
asked each other anxiously, before they went to sleep, if 
they were quite sure that it did not feel any warmer. It 
would be dreadful to wake up and to find that their beau- 
tiful castle had crumbled away! Never before had there 
been so Httle difficulty in getting out of bed as when the 
boys woke up the next morning. No, it was certainly not 
warmer; in fact, it was a good deal colder, and their fingers 
were so frozen that they could hardly fasten the buttons of 
their uniforms, but their faces were rosy and smiling as 
they trooped down the stairs. At the classes they were 
more attentive than usual, and no pranks were played; 
nothing must be done which could earn them a punish- 
ment, or risk their being deprived of that glorious sport. 
So when the hour of recreation came the whole school 
filled the courtyard. 



NAPOLEON 



It was wonderful, if anyone had cared to notice what 
a change had taken place in the feelings of the boys 




"BONJ^fiAKTS conn^DS his Fm^ "p^rRT" 



towards the gloomy, masterful youth who stood apart, and 
was dishked and shunned by the rest. Now it was to 
h^m that they looked for orders, and a word from him 



10 NAPOLEON 

made them glow with pleasure. For fourteen happy days 
the siege went on, sometimes one party getting the better 
and sometimes the other, the faults on both sides being 
pointed out clearly by Bonaparte himself. At the end of 
that time the snow had wasted, and the snowballs had a 
way of getting mixed with the small stones of the court- 
yard, so that the wounds were no longer imaginary. Then 
the principal of the college stepped in, and commanded 
the fort to be dismantled. 

After this the young cadets looked on Napoleon with 
different eyes. As to the professors, they had long ago 
made up their minds about him, and their opinion agreed 
in most points with that of M. de Keralio, who came to 
inspect the school in 1784. The inspector found that he 
was backward in Latin, in all foreign languages, and 
wanting in grace of manner, but that he was distin- 
guished in mathematics, and fond of geography and 
history, especially of Plutarch. In conduct he was 
obedient and well-behaved, except when his temper 
got the better of him. In fact, that he would make an 
excellent sailor! But Napoleon did 7iot make a sailor; 
indeed, except on his voyages to Corsica, Egypt, and 
St. Helena, he never went to sea. Instead, one day he 
climbed to the top of a heavy lumbering old coach, and 
travelled slowly to the great military school in Paris, to 
which he had a nomination as 'King's Cadet.' The school 
was a beautiful building in the Champs Elysees, and had 
been founded by Louis XV. for the sons of the nobles. 
Everything was on the grandest scale, and the cost 
was enormous. An immense number of servants were 
attached to the institution, besides a quantity of grooms 
to attend to the horses in the large stables. There was 
a private hospital on the premises, with doctors, sur- 
geons, and four nursing sisters, and a staff of seven 
servants. The food was abundant, and consisted, even 
on fast days, of soup, two kinds of vegetables, eggs, fish, 
and three sorts of fruit for dessert. Two suits of uniform 



NAPOLEON 11 

were allowed the cadets in the year, and these were put 
on punctually on the first of May and on the first of 
November, while their linen was changed three times a 
week. Of course, officials of all sorts were necessary 
to superintend these departments, and they were legion. 
The overseer of the kitchen, with its seven cooks and 
numerous scullions, was called ' the controller of the 
mouth,' and seven porters kept the seven doors. In all, 
counting the priests, who said mass daily at half-past 
six in the morning and prayers at a quarter to nine at 
night, a hundred and eleven people were employed about 
the school, and this without reckoning any of the pro- 
fessors. For there were, of course, professors for every- 
thing — riding, fencing, dancing, gunnery, mathematics, 
artillery, languages, history, geography, fortification, draw- 
ing, and many other things, besides a professor for 
special training in all that was then considered essential 
to good manners, which included being able to write a 
well-expressed letter and to move in society without 
awkwardness. 

At the time that Napoleon Bonaparte entered the Ecole 
Militaire by far the greater number of the cadets were 
young nobles belonging to rich famihes, whose reckless 
waste of money was one of the causes of the coming Revo- 
lution. The luxury of the school was to them a necessary 
part of life, but it bore hardly on the King's Cadets — 
Eleves du Roi — who, like Napoleon, were all poor. Soon 
after his arrival he wrote to M. Berton, the head of the 
school at Brienne, describing the state of things he had 
found in Paris, and the indignation he felt on the sub- 
ject. 'It is specially harmful,' he says, 'to the King's 
Cadets, who have no money, and, in order to foster their 
vanity and be on the same footing as their rich comrades, 
run into debt, besides rendering them discontented with 
their homes. It w^ould be far better only to give them 
all a dinner of two courses, and to teach them to wait 
on themselves, to brush their clothes, to clean their boots, 



12 NAPOLEON 

and to groom their horses.' And when, years after, he 
founded his military school at Fontainebleau, the ideas 
he had held at sixteen were carried out to the letter. As 
for his companions, the effect of the life of luxury was 
less harmful than he thought. After the Revolution, now 
so soon to break out, almost all of them became emigres, 
to avoid the vengeance of the Republican leaders on the 
whole class of the nobility. Numbers fled to England, 
having lost everything they possessed, and we all know 
with what splendid courage and gaiety they bore the 
worst hardships and supported themselves by teaching 
their own language and the dances they had learned 
in the Ecole Militaire. It is strange that out of the 
hundreds of youths who were Napoleon's comrades in 
Paris only one was destined to fight by his side, and 
this was a boy whom he hardly knew by sight, so 
recently had he come — Davoust, the future Duke of 
Auerstadt. 

Stern and solitary, yet outspoken when he was strongly 
moved. Napoleon was no more a favourite in Paris than 
he had been at Brienne, yet the cadets, as well as the 
greater part of the professors, felt that in some way or 
other he stood apart. The director of studies, Valfort, 
was struck by the weighty words and keen insight of this 
boy of sixteen when he thought it worth his while to speak, 
which was not often. 'His style is granite melted in a 
volcano,' says the professor of grammar about his exer- 
cises, and the phrase may be applied to his life-long char- 
acter. M. de I'Esguille, on reading his historical essays 
on Plutarch, Caesar, Rousseau, Tacitus, Voltaire, and a 
score of other famous writers, declared that he had a great 
future before him if he was helped by circumstances — 
perhaps not seeing that men like Napoleon fashion their 
circumstances for themselves. 'He is the best mathema- 
tician in the school,' replies a student to a question of the 
German professor, driven to despair by the dense stupidity 
of Napoleon over the language; for, as we have said, 



NAPOLEON 13 

neither then nor later could he ever make himself under- 
stood in any foreign tongue; neither could he learn to 
dance, although he took lessons. But when he was not 
at his classes, or engaged in working for them, the 
boy might have been found in the great library, for- 
getful of cold or hunger, poring over the histories of 
the past. It may have been there that he first dreamed 
the dream of his life — that some day he too, Hke 
Alexander, would march across the desert at the head 
of an army, and, entering India on the back of an 
elephant, would restore the broken French Empire in 
the East. 

It was the custom of the cadets to remain for three 
or even four years in the Ecole Militaire, but Napoleon 
had only been there ten months before he passed for the 
artillery, and was given a commission in the regiment of 
La Fere, then quartered in the town of Valence, with pay 
amounting to 45/. a year. He left Paris at the end of 
October, the only Corsican who had ever been admitted 
to the great military school, and, accompanied by his 
friend Des Mazis, arrived at Valence on one of the early 
days of November. Here lodgings had been found for 
him in the house of a certain Madame Bou, w^ho looked 
after him and made him comfortable. The pale sad- 
looking youth was grateful for her kindness, and fifteen 
years later, when he passed through the town on his way 
from Egypt, he sent a message that he wished to see her, 
and gave her a beautiful Indian shawl that a queen might 
have envied, and a silver compass that still may be seen 
in the Museum at Valence. 

Madame Bou's house was the only home he had known 
for nine years, and while there he grew for a time 
younger and happier in the society of some of her friends. 
Not that his work gave him much leisure. For three 
months he studied hard, for he had to learn drill and 
to study gunnery and fortifications. His ardour and 
quick mastery of all that was most difficult drew attention 



14 NAPOLEON 

and praise from his commanding officers, but from his 
equals, as usual, he held aloof. For one thing, he had 
no money to enable him to share their pleasures, though 
he was too proud to confess it; and for another, his 
interests and ambitions were widely different from 
theirs. To the end he remained the 'Spartan' that the 
boys at Brienne had called him. The pomp and glory 
of his later life was only put on for purposes of 
Slate — an ill-fitting garment, in which he never felt at 
ease. 

Having once satisfied his colonel as to his knowledge 
of drill, Napoleon apphed for leave in order to see after 
the affairs of his family in Corsica. Charles Bonaparte 
had died in France of a most painful illness about six 
months earher, and had left behind him many debts, 
not large in themselves, but more than Laetitia could 
pay, and Joseph, who had been with his father, does not 
seem to have been able to help her. So in September, 
shortly after his seventeenth birthday. Napoleon crossed 
the sea once more, and remained in Corsica, with only 
a short interval, till 1788. He found many changes in 
the home that he had left eight years before: Louis, who 
had then been a tiny baby, was now a big boy, and there 
were besides Paoletta, Nunziata (afterwards known as 
Caroline) and Jerome, the youngest of them all. Joseph 
was still his friend and companion, with whom every- 
thing was discussed, for their mother had become 
poorer than ever, and was obliged to look closely after 
everything, and it was no easy matter to provide such 
a family with food. She was heartily glad to see her 
son again, though like a true Corsican she said httle 
about it; but was a little disappointed that he had 
almost forgotten his Italian, and had become, in every- 
one's opinion, 'so very Frenchified.' How the cadets of 
the Ecole Militaire would have laughed if they had 
heard it! Bonaparte, who could never learn to dance, 
or to bow, or to turn a graceful compliment! But 



NAPOLEON 15 

though Joseph was perhaps pleasanter, and more popular, 
and made more friends, there was something about 
Napoleon which gave his mother rest. She felt that 
whatever he undertook would be done, and done thor- 
oughly. 

Meanwhile Napoleon began for the first time to enjoy 
games, even though his playfellows were only his little 
brothers and sisters. Paoletta, or, as he called her, Pau- 
lette, was very pretty, with little coaxing ways, strange 
indeed to find in Corsica, and when he was not talking 
seriously with Joseph of the disturbed state of the island, 
he was generally to be seen with Paulette on one side 
and Louis on the other. For from the first he was very 
fond of Louis, and all the time he was at home he taught 
him regularly part of every day. He had some books 
with him that he bought by denying himself things that 
most young men would have thought necessaries. Among 
them were mathematical treatises, Corneille's and Ra- 
cine's plays, which told stories of old Rome and her 
heroes, the Gallic wars of Caesar, translated, of course, or 
Napoleon could not have read it, and Rousseau's 'Social 
Contract'; but Louis was as yet too young for that, being 
only eight. In his spare moments Napoleon studied poli- 
tics and made notes about the history of Corsica, hoping 
some day to make them into a book, and chattered French 
to the little ones, who picked it up much more easily 
than their teacher had done. It seems strange that he 
should have been allowed to remain at home for nearly 
two years, but in France events were rapidly marching 
towards the Revolution, and rules were in many cases 
relaxed. Anyhow, it was not till June 1788 that he 
returned to his regiment, then quartered at Auxonne. 
His superior officers, especially Baron du Teil, all in- 
terested themselves in the young man for whom no work 
was too hard as long as it bore on military subjects, 
and encouraged him in every possible way. His men 
liked him, and felt the same confidence in him that his 



16 NAPOLEON 

mother had done; but from his own comrades he still 
held aloof, and the walks that he took round the city, 
pondering how best it could be attacked or defended, 
were always solitary ones. In general he was left pretty 
much alone — there was a feeling among them that he 
was not a safe person to meddle with; but sometimes 
their high spirits got the better of them, and when 
he was trying to puzzle out a problem in mathematics 
that had baffled him for days, his thoughts would be 
put to flight by a sudden blast of trumpets and roar 
of drums directly under his window. Then Napoleon 
would spring up with a fierce burst of anger, but before 
he could get outside the culprits were nowhere to be 
seen. 

As time went on, and the Revolution drew nearer. Na- 
poleon's thoughts turned more and more towards Corsica, 
and when, in July 1789, the taking of the great prison 
of the Bastille seemed to let loose the fury of the mob 
all over France, he felt that he must play his part in the 
liberation of his native island. So in September he ap- 
phed for leave and sailed for Ajaccio. On his arrival he 
at once began to take measures for enabhng the people 
to gain the independence which he hoped would be for- 
mally granted them by the National Assembly in Paris. 
The White Cockade, the Bourbon ensign, was to disappear 
from men's hats; a guard must be enrolled; a club, com- 
posed of all who wished for a new order of things, must 
be founded. Even when the French governor puts a stop 
to these proceedings, Napoleon is not to be beaten, but 
turns his attention to something else, taking care always 
to keep his men well in hand and to enforce disci- 
pHne. 

In this way passed the winter and spring, and in 
1790 the exiled PaoH was, by virtue of decree of the 
National Assembly, allowed, after twenty-two years, to 
return to the island. From Napoleon's childhood Paoli 
had been his hero of modern days, as Hannibal was of 



NAPOLEON 17 

ancient times; but when they actually came face to face 
Napoleon's boyish impatience chafed bitterly against the 
caution of the older man. It was their first difference, 
which time only widened. 

When Napoleon went back to Auxonne in February 
1 791 he was accompanied by Louis, then thirteen years 
old. They travelled through a very different France 
from that which Napoleon had beheld in 1778. Then 
all was quiet on the surface, and it seemed as if nothing 
would ever change; now, women as well as men met to- 
gether in large numbers and talked excitedly, ready at 
a moment's notice to break out into some deed of violence. 
Everywhere the tricolour was to be seen, the 'Marseil- 
laise' to be heard. Napoleon's eyes brightened as he 
listened to the song, and Louis watched and wondered. 
But not yet had the poor profited by the wealth of the 
rich. Napoleon's lodging, which he shared with Louis, 
was as bare as before; his food was even plainer, for now 
two had to eat it. Masters were costly and not to- 
be thought of, so Napoleon set lessons to be learned 
during the day, and to be repeated at night when 
military duties are over. And Louis was as eager 
for knowledge as Napoleon himself had been. 'He 
learns to write and read French,' writes the young 
lieutenant to his brother Joseph. 'I teach him math- 
ematics and geography and history. The ladies are 
all devoted to him' (probably the wives and daughters 
of the officers), 'and he has become quite French in 
his manners, as if he were thirty. As for his judg- 
ment, he might be forty. He will do better than any of 
us, but then none of us had so good an education.' So 
wrote Napoleon; and Louis on his side was deeply grateful 
for the pains and care bestowed on him. 'After Napo- 
leone, you are the one I love most,' he says in a letter to 
Joseph, whose tact and good nature made him every- 
body's favourite, though his stronger brother always 
looked down on him a little. Louis was a good boy, 
3 



18 NAPOLEON 

with generous feelings and a strong sense of duty, which 
in after-years, when he was King of Holland, brought 




him into strife with Napoleon, But in 1791 that was a 
long time off, and soon after this letter he writes another 



NAPOLEON 19 

to Joseph, in which he says, 'I make you a present of my 
two cravats that Napoleone gave me.' Did he keep any 
for himself, one wonders? 

Deeply though he loved his military duties, Napoleon 
could not rest away from Corsica, and in the autumn he 
again asked for leave from his long-suffering colonel. 
He found the island in even a worse condition than when 
he had last left it, for parties were more numerous and 
hatred fiercer. More than once Napoleon narrowly es- 
caped with his life, which, by all the laws of war, he had 
really forfeited as a deserter by long outstaying his leave. 
But this did not trouble Napoleon. With France upset, 
with 'Paris in convulsions,' and with the war with the 
allied Powers on the point of breaking out, no one was 
likely to inquire closely into the conduct of an unimpor- 
tant young soldier. Besides, rumours had reached the 
island that the school of St. Cyr would shortly be closed, 
and his mother was anxious about Marianna, who was 
still a pupil there. Clearly his best plan was to go to 
Paris, and to Paris he went in May 1792, hoping to be 
allowed quietly to take his old place in the regiment. 
Scarcely had he arrived when, walking in the street, 
watching all that passed and saying nothing, he came 
upon his old friend Bourrienne, from whom he had parted 
eight years before. The young men were delighted to 
meet, and spent their time making plans for the future. 
'He had even less money than I,' writes Bourrienne, 'and 
that was Httle enough! We formed a scheme for taking 
some houses that were being built, and subletting them 
at a higher rate. But the owners asked too much, and 
we were forced to give it up. Every day he went to seek 
employment from the Minister of War, and I from the 
Foreign Office.' 

Towards the end of June they both visited Marianna 
at St. Cyr, and from her Napoleon learned that the school 
was almost certain to be closed or totally changed in its 
institutions, and the girls returned to their relations with- 



20 NAPOLEON 

out the present of 3,000 francs (120/.) usually given to 
them when they left. It is curious to think that at that 
time, when girls grew up so early and married so young, 
they were expected to remain at St. Cyr till they were 
twenty. Marianna was at this time sixteen, 'but,' says 
Napoleon in a letter to Joseph at Ajaccio, 'not at all ad- 
vanced for her age, less so, indeed, than Paoletta. It 
would be impossible to marry her without having her at 
home for six or eight months first, but if you see any 
distant prospect of finding her a suitable husband, tell 
me, and I will bring her over. If not, she had better 
stay where she is till we see how things turn out. 
Still, I cannot help feeling that if she remains at St. Cyr 
for another four years she will be too old to adapt 
herself to life in Corsica, while now she will glide into 
its ways almost without noticing them.' In the end 
St. Cyr was closed, and Marianna threw off the white 
cap which the girls so hated because its fashion dated 
back to the time of the foundress, Madame de Maintenon, 
and set out with her brother for Corsica. She was a 
dull and rather disagreeable young lady, with a great 
notion of her own importance, and a bad temper. Some 
of the new ideas, especially those of the superiority of 
women over men, had reached her ears in a confused way, 
and had readily been adopted by her. She spent hours 
in talking over these with Lucien, her next brother, a 
youth of rather peculiar disposition, who did not get on 
with the rest. 

But all this happened in the autumn, and meanwhile 
Napoleon stayed in Paris, observing the course of events 
and roaming the streets with Bourrienne. One day they 
saw collected near the Palais Royal a crowd of five or 
six thousand men, dirty, ragged, evil-faced, and with 
tongues as evil. In their hands were guns, swords, 
knives, axes, or whatever they could seize upon, and, 
shouting, screaming, and gesticulating, they made their 
way towards the Tuileries. 'Let us follow those brutes/ 




^ CJ^ dici ^g^ eifer^ Ut^ the^c hesuats erif^r' ? 



NAPOLEON 23 

said Bonaparte, and, taking a short cut, they reached the 
garden terrace which overlooks the Seine, and from there 
they watched terrible scenes. 'I could hardly describe 
the surprise and horror they excited in him,* writes 
Bourrienne, 'and when at length the King appeared at a 
window, wearing the Red Cap of Liberty which had been 
thrust on his head by one of the mob, a cry broke' from 
Napoleon : 

' Why did they ever let these beasts enter ? ' he exclaimed, 
heedless of who might hear him. ' They should have mown 
down five hundred of them with the guns, and the rest 
would have run away.' 'They don't know what they are 
doing,' he said to Bourrienne a few hours after when they 
were sitting at dinner in a cheap restaurant. 'It is fatal 
to allow such things to pass unpunished, and they will rue 
it bitterly.' And so they did; for the loth of August was 
soon to come, and after that the September massacres of 
nobles and great ladies. 

With feelings like these — feelings often quite different 
from the doctrines which he held — Napoleon must have 
had hard work to keep his sword in its sheath on that 
very loth of August when the Tuileries was attacked and 
the Swiss Guards so nobly died at their post. He was 
standing at a shop window in a side street, and his soul 
sickened at the sight of the struggle. At last he could 
bear it no longer, and, dashing into the midst of the fray, 
he dragged out a wounded man from fhe swords of the 
rabble, w^ho by this time were drunk with blood. 'If 
Louis XVI. had only shown himself on horseback,' he 
writes to Joseph that same evening, 'the victory would 
have been his.' But, alas! Louis never did the thing that 
was wisest to do. Eager as he was to get away, Napoleon 
had to linger on amidst the horrors of the September 
massacres till he gained permission to take his sister back 
to Corsica. Here the state of affairs seemed almost as 
desperate as in France, and no man could trust his neigh- 
bour. Napoleon now fought openly against Paoli, whom 



24 NAPOLEON 

the execution of Louis XVI. threw into the arms of Eng- 
land, and fierce battles and sieges were the consequence. 
Once he was imprisoned in a house, and sentinels were 
placed before the door, but he contrived to escape through 
a side window, and hurried back to Ajaccio. Here his 
arrest was ordered, but warned by his friends Napoleon 
hid himself all day in a grotto, in the garden of one of 
his Ramohno cousins. Still, as it w^as clear that Ajaccio 
was no longer safe for him, he got on board a boat and 
rejoined Joseph at Bastia. 

Furious at his having slipped through their hands, 
the partisans of Paoli turned their wrath upon Laetitia 
and her children. With the high courage she had shown 
all her Hfe 'Madame Mere' wished to stay and defend 
her house, but was at last persuaded to fly, taking with 
her Louis, Marianna, and Paoletta, with her brother 
Fesch to guard them, leaving the two youngest children 
with her mother. Hardly had she gone when her house 
was pillaged and almost destroyed. It would have been 
burned to the ground but for fear of setting fire to the 
houses of the PaoHstes. It was only on June ii, after 
perils by land and perils by sea, that the fugitives, now 
joined by Napoleon, set sail for Toulon. The voyage 
lasted two days, and as soon as they touched land Napo- 
leon's first care was to find a lodging for his mother and 
the children, where they might rest in peace till he could 
decide what was best to be done. He then made his 
way to Nice, where a battery of artillery was quartered, 
and found that by great good luck the brother of his old 
general Baron du Teil was in command. In happier 
times he would most likely have been put under arrest 
at once, before being shot as a deserter; but, as in earlier 
days, the Republic was in need of every man it could get, 
and he was at once employed to inspect the defences along 
the coast and to collect guns and ammunition. In all 
this the warfare he had carried on in Corsica stood him 
in good stead. It had taught him how to deal with men, 



NAPOLEON 25 

and his eye had learned to discover the strong and weak 
points of a position, while his mind had grown rich in 
resource. As in the case of many of the greatest men, he 
had been trained for victory by defeat. It was at the 
siege of Toulon he gained the name at which for eleven 
years 'the world grew pale.' Revolted by the cruelties of 
the Convention in Paris, the town, Hke others in different 
parts of France, had declared for Louis XVIII. A friendly 
fleet of EngKsh and Spanish ships had cast anchor in the 
bay, and the French army which besieged the city was 
undisciplined and ill commanded. All that it had in the 
way of artillery was in so bad a condition as to be useless, 
the powder and shot were exhausted, Dommartin, the 
artillery officer, was wounded, and there was no man to 
take his place. 

'Send for young Bonaparte,' said Salicetti, one of the 
commissioners of the Convention, who had known him 
elsewhere; and from that moment the tide began to turn. 
Messengers were despatched at once to bring in horses 
from miles round, while an arsenal was built on one of 
the surrounding hills. Day and night the men kept at 
work, and before a week had passed fourteen big guns 
and four mortars were ready, and a large quantity of 
provisions stored up. Day and night the men laboured, 
and day and night Bonaparte was to be found beside them, 
directing, encouraging, praising. When he could no lon- 
ger stand, he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down 
beside them, present to guide them in any difficulty, to 
repair any blunder. And the representatives of the Con- 
vention noted it all, and one morning handed him his 
brevet of general of battalion. Armed with this authority 
Napoleon's task became easier. He had aides-de-camp 
to send where he would, and forthwith one rode along 
the coast to bring up cannon from the army of Italy, and 
another set out for Lyons to gather horses and food. But 
whatever he did, his eyes were fixed on the key of the 
city — the Fort Mulgrave which, it was plain to all, 



26 



NAPOLEON 



must be the first object of attack. Close underneath 
the fort a French battery was erected and manned — 
only to be swept clear by the guns from the English 
ships. Another set of volunteers slipped out from the 
ranks, and fell dead beside their comrades. For the third 
time Bonaparte gave the word of command, but there 




bONftVAHyE. IN THE BWrrEKY OP TRE, p-EMFU-El^ii 



was silence. *Call it the Battery of the Fearless,' he said, 
and in an instant every man had sprung forward. The 
battery was never without its gunner till the fort was 
taken. 

With the fall of Toulon we must bid farewell to Napo- 
leon, whose youth was over and whose manhood was now 
begun. You all know the story which ended at last in 
Waterloo, and there is no need to repeat it. 'He was not 



NAPOLEON 27 

a gentleman,' is said by many. Well, perhaps he was not 
always a gentleman, but the hold he obtained on France, 
and particularly on the men who followed him, was true 
and deep and lasting, for it endures even to this day. 
Listen to a soldier standing in the Invalides, where his 
body was laid when it was brought from St. Helena, with 
his hat and his sword placed beside him. 

'Ah! c'est Lui! c'est son chapeau! c'est son epee!' he 
cries, the glorious memories of the past rushing over him, 
till he too feels that he has fought at Austerlitz and at 
Marengo. 

And when they asked for rights, he made reply 

' Ye have my glory.' And so, drawing round them 

His ample purple, glorified and bound them 

In an embrace that seemed identity. 

* He ruled them like a tyrant.' True. But none 

Were ruled like slaves. Each felt Napoleon. 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

At nine o'clock on the morning of March 20, 181 1, the 
boom of a cannon sounded through Paris. Peace reigned 
throughout France, yet the roar of the gun had a magical 
effect on the hurrying passers-by. Every man, woman, 
and child, whatever might be their business, stopped where 
they stood, as if a fairy had waved her wand over them. 
No one moved; no one spoke; not only did their feet seem 
enchanted, but their tongues too. Silently they all re- 
mained in their places while the thunder of the cannon 
still went on, but their faces wore a strained, intense look 
as if they were counting something. Nineteen! twenty! 
twenty-one! one and all they held their breath. Twenty- 
two! and a cry as of one man rung out. The spell was 
broken, handkerchiefs were waved, hats flew into the air, 
old soldiers embraced each other with tears in their eyes. 
The King of Rome was born. 

And who was this King of Rome, the only bearer of a 
noble name, and why was his birth so dear to the citizens 
of Paris ? He was the son of Napoleon and the Archduch- 
ess Marie Louise, destined, so it was hoped, to carry on 
the work of his father and to bear the eagles triumphant 
through many a field of battle. And yet, if they could 
have looked forward twenty-one years, they would have 
seen a youth dying of consumption far from the country 
which he loved, after one of the saddest lives that perhaps 
any child ever knew. 

But now, on the day of his birth, nobody dreamed of 
28 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 29 

the doom that lay on him! Instead, he seemed the most 
fortunate baby in the whole world! He had a lady-in- 
waiting in charge of him and his numerous nurses, and 
chief attendant, the Comtesse de Montesquiou, 'Maman 
Quiou' as he called her in after-days; his room was hung 
with soft green silk curtains, with palm trees and golden 
lizards embroidered on them. He slept all night long, 
and part of the day too, in a cot shaped like a boat, with 
a gilded prow, and the green, myrtle broidered curtains 
that shaded him from the light were caught together by 
a wreath of golden laurels. In the room there was an- 
other cradle, more beautiful, given him by the City of 
Paris, which was to go with him by-and-by into exile, 
and can still be seen at the Palace of Schonbrunn.' 
This cot had been the work of famous artists; Prud'hon 
had drawn the designs, and the most skilful sculptors 
and goldsmiths had carried them out. The curtains at 
his head were of lace, sprinkled with golden stars, 
and an eaglet, with outstretched wings, hovered over his 
feet. 

When His Majesty the King of Rome was a month 
old, he was driven out to the palace of St. Cloud, where 
he lived with Madame de Montesquiou in rooms opening 
straight on to the gardens. Here, in the green and quiet, 
he grew strong, and able to bear the fatigues of his chris- 
tening, which was celebrated in the Cathedral of Notre 
Dame, on June 9, with all the pomp suitable to the occasion. 
Once again the bells rang out, and all along the way troops 
took up their places. At five o'clock the Tuileries gardens 
were filled with carriages, and the procession began to 
form. The escort of troops rode first, and were followed 
by the gay-coated heralds and the officers of State, these 
last in carriages drawn by four horses. The Emperor's 
brothers and sisters came next, and after them was a 
pause, till the Imperial carriage, drawn by eight horses, 
hove in sight, containing Madame de Montesquiou, hold- 
ing on her knees the King of Rome. His long robe was 



30 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

of white satin covered with lace; a little lace cap was on 
his head, and across his breast lay the red ribbon of the 
Legion of Honour. 'Long Hve Napoleon Francis Charles 
Joseph, King of Rome!' cried the heralds when the bap- 
tismal ceremony was over, and the Emperor, snatching 
the child from the arms of its mother, held him out 
to the crowd who thronged the church. 'Long Hve 
the King of Rome!' it cried in answer: then the pro- 
cession re-formed, and returned to the Tuileries in the 
same order. 

Marie Louise does not seem to have had the boy much 
with her, though Isabey, the famous artist, was constantly 
ordered to paint his picture, and it was his father whom 
he first learned to know. Napoleon had always been fond 
of playing with children; and before the birth of his own 
son, his nephews and nieces were constantly about him. 
Best of all, he had loved the little Napoleon Charles, son 
of his brother Louis, King of Holland, and Hortense Beau- 
harnais, and Charles was never happier than w^hen trotting 
about at 'Nanon's' side. Nanon was the pet name of 
Napoleon. Together they would go and feed the gazelles 
with tobacco — which (if strong) was very bad for the 
gazelles, and made them ill for a whole day after — or 
the Emperor would take him to parade, and Charles would 
cry, 'Long Hve Nanon the soldier!' And how proud 
Nanon was one day when Charles, who had been lost at 
a review held at Boulogne, was found wandering between 
the line of fire of the two armies, not a bit afraid of the 
guns. 

Charles was a very nice little boy, and had been taught 
good manners by Queen Hortense. When he went into 
Nanon's dressing-room he did not puH about the things 
that were lying on the dressing-table, but sat still while 
he chattered to his uncle, or repeated some fable of La 
Fontaine's which he had learned the day before. He 
was a generous little fellow, and would readily give away 
his toys or sweets, and only laughed when Napoleon 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 31 



pulled his ears, instead of getting angry like his cousins, 
the little Murats. Every day he did his lessons, and 





^^>aG; 'T^T'cfiC-zE^i^^^ ^-f"^ 



l*n:TR «Io:&A.c CO 




was allowed sometimes, as a great treat, to copy out the 
'Wolf and the Lamb,' or the 'Lion and the Mouse,' or 



32 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

the 'Goose with the Golden Eggs,' to show to Nanon. 
But by-and-by he had to say good-bye to Nanon and 
go back to his father and mother in Holland, where 
he fell ill and died, at the age of four and a half, in 
May 1807. 

After Charles's death Napoleon made a pet of the dead 
child's younger brother, Napoleon Louis, though he never 
took the elder child's place in his uncle's heart. Still, the 
Emperor Hked to have Louis about him, and swung him 
on to his knee at breakfast, and gave him bits of omelette 
or cutlet on his fork. Louis, of course, wanted to do 
everything his uncle did, and one day insisted on sipping 
his coffee, but he did not Hke it, and made a face. 'Oh, 
Louis!' cried the Emperor, 'your education is certainly 
not finished, as you have not learned how to hide your 
feelings.' The boy stared and grew rather cross, for he 
felt he was being laughed at, though he did not under- 
stand why. His temper was never as good as his brother's, 
and he often flew into a rage when Napoleon teased 
him, as he was very fond of doing. One morning, 
when Louis was three years old, he was breakfasting 
with the Emperor, and was just going to eat an egg, 
when Napoleon caught it up, and held it out of his reach. 
* Give me my egg, or I will kill you,' said Louis, picking 
up a knife. 'Would you really kill your uncle?' asked 
Napoleon. 

' Give me my egg, or I will kill you,' repeated Louis, 
louder than before; and Napoleon laughed and gave it 
back to him, and patted his head, saying, 'Ah, some day 
you will be a fine fellow!' 

But now that he had a son of his own, who would by- 
and-by inherit the Empire he had created and tread in 
his footsteps. Napoleon could not make enough of him. 
He, too, came to breakfast, and, much to Madame de 
Montesquiou's disgust, the Emperor would dip his fingers 
in the red wine he was drinking, and give it to the baby 
to suck. The King of Rome would shrink away in terror 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 33 

from the bunch of nodding plumes on his mother's bonnet, 
but he smiled and crowed when his father Hfted him in 
the air. Sometimes, however, the play got too rough, and 
the child would screw up the corners of his mouth and 
begin to cry. Then the Emperor would stop and look at 
him gravely, and say to him : 

'What, Sire! are you crying? A king, and yet you cry! 
Oh, that is very bad! Kings don't cry!' and he would 
begin to make faces, which the baby loved, and it would 
break into smiles directly. The boy grew quickly, and at 
eight months old he was already trying to walk, but, on 
the other hand, he was very backward in talking. As he 
got older, he would often manage to escape from the nur- 
sery, and, running along the passage, knock with his fists 
on the door of the Emperor's study. 

'Open! I want papa,' he would say to the sentry, who 
always answered: 

'Sire, I must not let in your Majesty.' 

'Why not? I am the httle king.' 

'But your Majesty is alone!' repHed the sentry, who had 
been ordered not to admit the boy unless Madame de 
Montesquiou was with him. The child's eyes filled with 
tears, but hearing 'Maman Quiou's' voice behind him, he 
took hold of her hand and looked at the man, saying: 

'Now open it. The little king desires it.' 

'His Majesty the King of Rome,' announced the usher, 
and the little fellow ran straight up to his father, sure 
of his welcome. No matter how occupied the Emperor 
might be, the child was never sent away. His father 
would hold him on his knee while he signed State papers, 
or walk up and down the room with the boy on his back 
as he dictated despatches to his secretaries, or, greatest 
joy of all, he would allow his son to play with the little 
wooden soldiers that he kept on the table when planning 
his campaigns. In face the httle king grew daily more 
like an Austrian, though his father tried in vain to see 
some resemblance to himself. But in many ways he 
4 



34 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

showed his Corsican blood, and chiefly in the sudden 
bursts of temper to which he was liable. These were 
always stopped at once by his governess, who never spoilt 
him herself or suffered anyone else to do so. One day, 
when something had displeased him, he stormed and 
raged till Madame de Montesquiou feared he would fall 
into convulsions, as his cousin, Achille Murat, had done 
only the week before. Finding that the child would 
listen to nothing, she ordered an attendant to close all 
the shutters. The boy, astonished at the sudden dark- 
ness, ceased crying at once, and asked why the sun was 
shut out. 

'So that nobody might hear you. Sire. The people 
would never want you for their king if they knew how 
naughty you could be!' 

'Did I scream very loud?' he inquired in rather a small 
voice. 

'Very,' replied the governess. 

'Do you think they heard?' 

'I am afraid so.' 

At this answer his tears began to fall again, but quite 
silently. He made a violent effort to check them, and 
when he could speak, he stretched up his arms to his 
governess, and w^hispered, 'I'll never do it again, Maman 
Quiou. I am very sorry.' 

By the time he was two years old the Httle king had 
a whole roomful of toys of every sort: there was a drum, 
mounted in silver, that Napoleon had given him on his 
first birthday, before the ill-fated army started for Russia; 
there was a top in an ivory frame, and a Polish lancer 
who could move his legs; there was a wonderful pearl 
and enamel box, with a locket inside, and out of the locket 
a bird jumped and sang. The King of Rome cherished 
them all; but best he loved a w^ooUy sheep with a velvet 
collar and golden bells. He would play with this sheep 
for hours together, pretending it was the lamb that the 
wicked wolf was trying to catch, as told in his favourite 




^'^S-ir^^ l?Tiit£.ir riot l^ir^iri ^our^ fl^Jesty 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 37 

story. When he went out, he had two real white sheep to 
draw him, in a beautiful little carriage given him on his 
birthday by his aunt, Caroline Murat, and in this he drove 
along the riverside terrace of the Tuileries, dressed in 
white muslin and lace, with the red ribbon of the Legion 
of Honour peeping out of the folds. And the Parisians 
were always deHghted to see him, and at the bidding of 
his governess he smiled and waved his hand, for the Em- 
peror was most particular about his manners. He was 
also anxious that the child should grow up as strong and 
hardy as he himself had done, so every day, whatever the 
weather, the httle prince drove out in his carriage, with a 
merino pelisse over his musHn frock, and a pink or blue 
loose coat on top. The Empress thought it a pity, and 
feared her son might catch cold, but in this matter Napoleon 
had his way. 

Long before this the chateau at Meudon had been 
prepared as a sort of school for the Imperial children; 
if indeed the King of Rome should have any brothers 
or sisters. It was a rest for Napoleon to turn from the 
thoughts of war, and to plan every detail of the education 
that was to be given to his son. He collected a library 
of 6,000 volumes, which it would be years before the boy 
could read or understand. After the fashion of the day 
he ordered a dinner-service to be made at the manufac- 
tory at Sevres, and each of the seventy plates contained 
a lesson. Eleven of them were painted with scenes from 
Roman history, thirty-two with famous victories of the 
French; while the rest were covered with pictures of 
sun, moon, and stars, or birds, beasts, and fishes. His 
rooms w^ere hung with blue velvet, and the backs of the 
chairs and sofas, as well as the walls, were covered with 
drawings of the most celebrated Roman buildings. It 
was in the same spirit that Madame de Genlis desired 
to teach Roman history to her two pupils, Louis Philippe 
and his sister, only she wished to have the events woven 
into tapestries, which would have taken even longer to 



38 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 



make than the dinner-set and have been still more 

costly. 

So the little prince was sent, with his governesses and 
his nurses and his own staff of servants, to Meudon, and 
Madame de Montesquieu wrote constant reports of him 
to his parents at the Tuileries. At fourteen months he 
had for dinner soup, beef, chicken, and pudding; at least 
these things appeared on his table, though most likely 
he was not allowed to eat them all. Directly the dinner 
was ready, the dishes were placed in a large box, which 
was carefully locked by the head cook, who gave it to a 
footman, and by him it was carried to the prince's apart- 
ments, where the box was unlocked by Madame de 
Montesquiou with a second key. These precautions 
dated back from many centuries, when poison, or rather 
the fear of it, played so large a part in the life of Courts. 
Certainly nobody wanted to poison the poor little King 
of Rome, and if they had, they would hardly have liked 
to face the consequences! Instead, he was adored by 
all his attendants, as a good-tempered, heaUhy baby 
generally is. They loved to stand and peep through the 
door, when 'Maman Quiou' was not looking, and watch 
him staggering and tumbhng about on the mattresses, 
three feet thick, that were spread in his rooms, so that he 
might learn to walk without hurting himself; and they 
would wait behind the curtains to see him start for his 
drive, with his two white sheep beautifully combed and 
curled, the golden bells of their collars tinkhng as they 
went. 

For some months the baby and his household remained 
at Meudon with his governess, while the Emperor had 
begun the fatal war with Russia, and the Empress was 
enjoying herself at Dresden with her father, Francis II. 
Madame de Montesquiou writes her reports to the Em- 
peror as usual, and no matter how busy he is, he never 
fails to answer. Sometimes these letters are accompa- 
nied by a bust or a miniature, and by-and-by Marie 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 39 

Louise herself sends a full-length portrait of him by 
Gerard, which arrives on September 6, 1812, the day 
of the battle of the Moskowa. For an instant Russia 
ceases to exist for Napoleon: the world holds nothing 




^S^-^^oWn 4V«*S tJjff 1»orbra.t to the QcAcras 

but a Httle boy in a white frock. 'Summon my generals,' 
he says, and they come crowding into his tent, where 
the portrait of the King of Rome stands upon a rough 
table. As they look the Emperor turns to them with 
a wave of his hand. ' Gentlemen, if my son were fifteen 



40 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 



years old instead of eighteen months, it is not only in his 
portrait that he would be present to-day.' Then, steadying 
his voice, which had trembled as he spoke, he added, 
'Take it away; it is too soon for him to look upon a field 
of battle.' 

It was on December i8 that the Emperor, ill and de- 
jected, returned to France, leaving the remnant of his 
army behind him, to struggle with the horrors of the retreat. 
He knew too well that at the first sign of weakness and 
defeat the hatreds that his despotism had sown all over 
Europe would spring in scores from the earth, armed to 
the teeth, and for the first time in his career the thought 
entered Hke iron into his soul that the star in which he 
so firmly beheved might be setting. Could anything be 
done, he wondered, in case, in case — it was as well to 
be prepared for everything. Yes, that was it! His son 
must be crowned Emperor by Pope Pius the Seventh, who 
was still a prisoner at Fontainebleau, and then, if abdica- 
tion was forced upon himself, his dynasty would still sit 
on the throne of France. But though the Pope did not 
refuse when Napoleon arrived unexpectedly at Fontaine- 
bleau, and even allowed the day for the ceremony to be 
fixed, he made various difficulties, and in the end retracted 
altogether the consent which had been unwillingly wrung 
from him. 

While his father w^as thus mapping out his future career, 
the little prince was living happily at St. Cloud with Madame 
de Montesquiou. In April, just after he had passed his 
second birthday, a great event happened — he put on his 
first pair of trousers, and though they were only made of 
musHn, his nurses were as proud as if they had been a 
pair of jack boots! Nobody, they said, and it was quite 
true, would have taken him for less than three, or even 
four, but still it was strange that so quick and Hvely a 
child should be so slow in talking. 

' Maman Quiou ' agreed with them. It was very strange, 
but perhaps he needed a friend of his own age, to play 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 41 

and even quarrel with. So she made inquiries among 
the prince's attendants and chose the son of a Madame 
Froment, about a year older than the prince, a good- 
tempered and well-behaved boy who knew nothing about 
rank, only that they were two Httle boys together. What 
fun they had on their ponies, those two! and though of 
course they never went out without grooms to lead them, 
they both felt as great as ever Napoleon had done after 
Marengo or Austerlitz! Did they not wear the uniforms 
of Mamelouks or Turkish guards; and did not the people 
smile and bow as they passed, and the children look 
after them with envy? In the company of little Fro- 
ment the King of Rome soon found his tongue, and 
when on Sundays ministers and marshals flocked to 
pay their court, he was able to stammer a few polite 
words taught him by his governess. On these occasions 
he was always dressed in a smart uniform, which 
soon became his daily costume. He was either a 
Lancer, or a Grenadier, or a National Guard, and every 
Sunday he drove round the park and looked at the water- 
falls which were always a joy to him. Once, as a special 
favour, a girls' school was allowed to stand in the hall 
of the palace and watch him go by! They gazed silent 
and awe-stricken at the fortunate baby, but when they 
got out into the air once more, they chattered Hke mag- 
pies about his golden hair and his lovely clothes, and his 
pretty manners. 'Oh! how nice to be a king,' they 
said. 

Of course he was much too little to read any of the 
books his father provided for him, but he soon learned 
to know his letters, and to point out which was Caesar 
and which Henri IV. Fairy tales were strictly forbidden 
to him; they were 'useless,' his father said, and the boy 
who had begun his life like a fairy prince ended it early 
in the grimmest of realities. 

At the moment that the King of Rome was born Napo- 
leon's power was at its height. One by one he had 



42 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

forced the nations of Europe to bow to his yoke, or to 
accept his aUiance, except England, which still defied 
him, and Spain and Portugal that with her help were 
shaking themselves free of the chains that bound them. 
But soon there were signs that the vast Empire was about 
to crumble. Russia was the first to rebel, and the cam- 
paign against her in 1812 was full of disasters. The 
people did not hesitate to set fire to their beloved city of 
Moscow, rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the 
invaders, and its stores were destroyed and its fire engines 
broken. In November began the retreat amidst the winter 
snows. Thousands of French soldiers died from cold 
and exposure, while, to add to the horrors, the Russian 
army hung on the rear, and harassed them at every step. 
At the news of each check to the French arms the hearts 
of Napoleon's many enemies beat faster, and soon it grew 
plain that he would have to fight not only Prussia and 
Russia, but his present ally Austria, and England, Por- 
tugal, and Spain: and that on the victory depended, not 
his supremacy in Europe, but his hold over France. 
Still, he had faith in his star, and in his soldiers, and 
shut out all doubts from his mind as he made his prepara- 
tions. 

It was on January 23, 1813, that, wearing the uniform 
of the National Guard, the King of Rome was carried by 
Madame de Montesquieu into the Salle des Marechaux 
in the Tuileries, which was filled with the oflScers of the 
regiment. The Emperor signed to the governess to put 
the child on the ground, and, placing him by his side, 
advanced with the Empress into the middle of the room. 
'I am on the eve of starting to lead my army to fresh 
victories,' he said, 'and I leave my wife and son to your 
care. Will you defend them? Say! will you defend 
them? Can I trust you; will you defend them?' A 
great shout answered him; then, snatching up the boy, 
he carried him down to the Place du Carrousel where the 
privates were assembled, crying, 'Long live the Emperor! 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 43 

Long live the King of Rome!' The boy waved his hand 
and smiled, and Napoleon smiled also. 'He knows you 
are my friends,' he said, and the shouts grew louder than 
before. 

All that year, while Napoleon was desperately fighting 
the alHed army in order to retain the Empire that was 
sHpping from him, his son was Hving quietly with ' Maman 
Quiou,' who did her best to train him for the position she 
was beginning to doubt that he would ever occupy. In 
spite of the care which she had exercised to treat him 
as an ordinary child, and the blows that had been given 
and taken by little Froment, it had naturally proved im- 
possible to prevent foolish people from flattering and 
indulging him. 'As papa is away I am master,' he once 
said, not knowing that the 'master' was no longer himself 
or his father, but the AUies, for Napoleon's star had set 
at last. He was beaten. 

Marie Louise and her son were sent to Blois, where 
they remained for a short time, the Empress, who was 
wholly Austrian at heart, nourishing hopes of a kingdom 
to be created for her by her father, Francis II. In vain 
did Meneval, the Secretary, and Madame de Montesquiou 
urge her to join her husband at Fontainebleau, and stand 
by him when he signed, on April 13, the act of abdication. 
To take her share in any trouble was never the way of 
Marie Louise; but she seems to have been satisfied when 
she learned that she was still to be called 'Empress,' and 
to have the duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla 
as her dowry. As for accompanying Napoleon to the 
island of Elba, which had been chosen for his prison, it 
never so much as occurred to her. The 'General,' as she 
henceforth called him, had passed out of her Hfe. Scraps 
of conversation and anxious looks caused the little boy, 
'King of Rome' no more, but 'Prince of Parma,' to feel 
that something terrible was in the air, something that 
had to do with himself and his father and mother, and 
he soon found out what it was. 'Blucher is my enemy,' 



44 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

he said one day to his governess, and on his way to Vienna 
he remarked to one of his attendants, 'Louis XVIII. has 
taken papa's place, and has kept all my toys, but he must 
be made to give them up,' while another time he added 
sadly, ' I see that I am not a king any more, as I have no 
pages.' 

It was at the chateau of Rambouillet, not far from Pau, 
that Marie Louise met her father, whom she welcomed 
with pure delight, as if the visit had been only one of pleas- 
ure. The arrangements for the journey to Vienna were 
soon made, and her son's attendants chosen. They were 
to be Madame de Montesquiou, who left her family behind 
so that the Httle prince might not feel himself forsaken; 
Madame Soufflot, and her daughter Fanny, a girl of fifteen, 
who, the boy thought, made a better playfellow than his 
friend Froment, from whom he was now parted; Madame 
Marchand, his nurse; and Gobereau, the valet, with his 
wife and Httle son. Most of his possessions were, as he 
said, left behind for Louis XVIII. , but he was allowed to 
take with him to the country palace of Schonbrunn the 
wonderful cradle given him by the City of Paris, and 
some of his favourite toys, selected by himself. How hard 
it was to know what to choose out of those multitudes of 
beautiful things. 'Oh! I can't leave thai! I must take 
thatr he would cry, as his nurses and governesses pulled 
out one toy after another, and it was very difficult to make 
him understand that he could not take them all. At 
length, after many tears, a few were put aside: two wooden 
horses, a stable, a grenadier, a hussar, a cow and a milk- 
maid, a Turk playing on a mandoKne, a grocer's shop — 
these and a few others were what he took with him, but 
dearer than all were his little carriage drawn by the sheep, 
and a hundred and fifty pebbles which he had collected 
himself. 

He travelled in a carriage with Madame de Montes- 
quiou, as his mother soon grew tired of him, and much 
preferred the company of her lady-in-waiting, Madame 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 45 

de Montebello. It was a long journey, and they did not 
travel fast, so that it was the end of May before they 
reached Schonbrunn. There the child began to feel as 
if he was a king again, so warm was the welcome of the 
people, who were charmed with his fair hair and merry 
smile. Indeed, though he did not forget his father, and 
often asked about him, he was quite happy for a few 
months, surrounded by his French friends who so dearly 
loved him. By this time he could read, and every morn- 
ing after he got up and had had some coffee and rolls, 
he learned a little history and geography, with Gobereau, 
the valet's son, as a companion in his studies. When 
these were finished, an ItaHan master came and taught 
him the ItaHan names of the things in the room and short 
sentences, and he was followed by a German, whom the 
child did not like as well. After the German took leave 
of him, his playtime began, and he had great games at 
soldiers with himself and Fanny Soulflot on one side, 
and his little uncle the Archduke Francis and Gobereau 
on the other. From his earliest years war had been 
a passion with him; guns never frightened him, and 
military music made him dance with excitement. Little 
though he knew of his father — for his Austrian tutors 
did not encourage conversation about Napoleon — he was 
at any rate aware that he had been a great general, and 
the older the prince grew, the more ardently he longed 
to tread in his footsteps. But the Revolution, which had 
given Napoleon his chance, was past and gone, though 
perhaps if the Eaglet (as the prince was called) had in- 
herited his father's genius, he would have made an 
opportunity for himself. But he had not genius, only 
ambition; and the circumstances of his life were against 
him. 

One March morning the news flashed through Europe 
that Napoleon had landed in France from Elba, and that 
with every fresh day many thousands joined his standard. 
Not for one moment did Marie Louise think of joining 



46 BIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

him, or of watching with any feeling but that of dismay 
the struggle which was yet to come. Her child was hur- 
riedly removed from Schonbrunn into Vienna itself, so that 
he should run no risk of being carried off by his father's 
friends. To make all safer, his grandfather, Francis II., 
ordered Madame de Montesquieu to deliver the boy to 
him, and to return at once to her own country, though as 
a matter of fact she was kept in a sort of confinement till 
the battle of Waterloo had decided the fate of Napoleon 
and his son. 

Madame de Montesquiou heard the command with a 
feeling of despair. For four years her life had been ab- 
sorbed in that of the prince as it had never been absorbed 
in that of her own children. From seven in the morning, 
when he got up, to the time that he went to bed, he was 
scarcely out of her presence for half an hour. During 
these four years he had been of more importance to her 
than anything in the world, not only from duty, but from 
love, and he knew it, and came to her for everything. 
It would have been hard enough to have parted from 
him had they still been in France — had Napoleon been 
there to watch over and protect him — but it was a thou- 
sand times more bitter to leave him alone, for he was 
alone, though his mother and his grandfather were both 
in Vienna. 

Sorely though the boy wept at parting with 'Maman 
Quiou' there still remained the Soufflots and Marchand, 
the nurse, to console him, and they did their best. New 
games were invented for him and wonderful stories were 
told him, and when he grew tired of them he would go to 
Meneval, who knew all about soldiers, and could show 
him how they advanced to cross a river or besiege a fort. 
But by-and-by there came about him a strange lady whom 
he did not Hke, and who did not seem to Hke him 
either. She gave orders to Madame SoufHot and to 
Fanny, who curtsied and turned red, and said as little as 
possible; but though after she had gone they went back 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 47 

to their games, they did not enjoy them as heartily as 
before. 

At last, one dreadful day, Meneval entered the room 
when the lady was present, and, with a low bow, he in- 
formed 'his Imperial Hi-ghness the Prince of Parma' that 
he was about to quit Vienna for France, and wished to 
know whether he had any messages for his father. The 
prince, grown dull and silent during the last few days, did 
not answer, but walked slowly down to the furthest window 
and looked out. Meneval followed him to take leave, 
when the child whispered quickly, ' Tell him that I always 
love him. Monsieur Meva.' 

He not only loved him, but thought about him, and 
listened eagerly to what his elders might let fall, though, 
as long as he had his French attendants with him, he 
rarely put any questions to his German tutors. But soon 
he noticed that both Madame Soufflot and Fanny had 
red circles round their eyes, and could hardly look at him 
without crying. The prince did not need to be told the 
reason; by this time he understood many things. As 
usual he said nothing, but went straight to his room and 
brought out all his treasures, the treasures that had come 
with him from France a year and a half before. There 
was his little gun, his Order of the Legion of Honour, 
his soldiers, the veil that he had worn at his christening, 
the medals that had been struck at his birth. 'Take 
them,' he said to Fanny SoufRot; 'take them back to 
France.' 

Now there was only Marchand left, in whose presence 
he had slept every night since he was born. She was 
only a peasant woman, and surely could not be suspected 
of plotting against the Austrian Court 1 No, but she might 
talk to him of his father, and keep alive memories which 
were better let die. She put him to bed one night as usual, 
in the spring of 1816, but in the morning there stood at his 
bedside, not Marchand, but an Austrian officer. Once 
more the boy understood. He turned a shade paler, but 



48 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

asked no questions, merely saying, 'Monsieur Foresti, I 
should like to get up.' 

It had not been without a struggle that the friends of 
Napoleon had allowed his son to be set aside. An effort 
was made to proclaim him Napoleon II. when his father, 
for the second time, abdicated the French throne. But 
the attempt met with no response, and was, indeed, quite 
ignored by the Chamber of Deputies. The only result to 
the prince was to surround him more strictly than before 
with German tutors and attendants, and to discourage him 
to speak in French. Henceforth he was to be an Austrian, 
and an Austrian only, and as he was not yet five years old 
the task did not seem difficult. They were soon undeceived; 
the child did not talk much about his former life to these 
strangers, but every now and then he would put inconve- 
nient questions. 

'Why was I called "King of Rome?'" he asked his 
tutor one day. 

'Because at the time you were born your father ruled 
over many countries,' was the reply. 

'Did Rome belong to my father?' 

'No; Rome belongs to the Pope.' 

'Is not my father in India now?' 

' Oh dear no, certainly not.' 

'Then he is in America?' 

'Why should he be in America?* 

'W^here is he, then?' 

'That I cannot tell you.' 

'I heard someone say that he was in great misery.' 

'Well, you must have known that that was not Hkely 
to be true.' 

'No, I thought it couldn't be,' answered the boy, with 
a smile of relief. 

All his teachers found that he was quick at his lessons, 
when he chose to take the trouble to learn them, which 
was not always, and, like many other httle boys, he would 
listen for hours to what was read to him, though at first 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 49 

he was not fond of reading to himself. However, when he 
was about six he suddenly changed in this respect, and 
was often found poring over the Old Testament, delighting 
in the descriptions of the wars with the Amalekites or the 
exploits of Samson. As for his amusements, sometimes 
he acted in theatricals at the Court, and in spite of his 
age was present at the State balls, where everyone was 
struck with his grace, for, unlike his father, he always 
loved to dance. His tutors were quite kind to him, and 
did their best to bring him up in a way that was suitable 
to the grandson of the Emperor of Austria, but by trying 
to make him forget the country of his birth they went 
the wrong way to work. His recollections and feelings 
refused to be stifled; he was alone, and knew he had 
no place in the world; he had not a title, for the 
Congress of Vienna had deprived him of the succession 
to his mother's three duchies, and now even his name 
was taken from him. He was no longer 'Napoleon,' but 
'Prince Francis Charles.' As his custom was, he kept 
silence about it, but this hurt him more than all the rest. 
After a time, however, Francis II., who was really fond 
of him, saw that it was not for his own dignity to leave 
his grandson in this position, and created him Duke of 
Reichstadt, with coat-of-arms, and lands, and a palace at 
Vienna. 

Early in the year 182 1, when he was ten years old, the 
Duke of Reichstadt began his studies in a public school, 
which were to end in a commission in the Austrian army. 
In spite of all his teaching he does not seem to have had 
a much greater talent for languages than his father, whose 
disHke of Latin he shared cordially. Great pains had 
been taken at first to force him to forget French, and to 
make him speak only the tongues used in the Austrian 
Empire, which were German and ItaHan, but as he grew 
older his lessons in French were begun again. After 
eleven years of study he was unable to write an Italian 
letter without mistakes, while his French compositions 
5 



50 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

show that he thought in German, and then translated his 
ideas, so that it did not seem hke real French at all. Like 
Napoleon, again, he was fond of mathematics and loved 
history, but best of all his drill. However idle he might 
be in other things, he worked hard at this, and how proud 
he was when he earned his promotion as a sergeant, and 
was allowed to mount guard before the room of his 
grandfather. 

The prince was at Schonbrunn with his tutors, when on 
a hot summer morning a messenger arrived from Vienna, 
and desired to speak with Monsieur Foresti. Their talk 
was long, and when they parted Foresti 's face was unu- 
sually grave, but he said nothing till the evening, when he 
told the boy in a few words that the father of whom he 
thought so much had died at St. Helena on May 5. Not- 
withstanding his occasional bursts of temper, the duke's 
silence and reserve about his feehngs Jiad won him the 
reputation of coldness of heart, and Foresti was amazed 
at the torrent of tears which broke from him. Now in- 
deed he was alone, with only his shadowy recollections for 
company, and the stories of the Emperor's greatness which 
he had heard from his French governesses five years before. 
And during these five years his thoughts had never ceased 
to hover round his father, all the more persistently, per- 
haps, from the ignorance in which he had been kept con- 
cerning him. But well he remembered how the portraits 
and miniatures of himself had from time to time been 
sent to his father to Elba, to Fontainebleau, and some to 
St. Helena — though exactly where St. Helena was he did 
not know. That he was to learn later, when his tutor 
bade him look it out on the map, and gave him a lesson 
on its size and produce. Meanwhile he was put into 
mourning, which Foresti and Collin wore also; but they 
had strict orders not to go near any pubhc places, where 
their black clothes might be seen and noticed, as neither 
the Emperor nor his Court had made the sHghtest change 
in their dress. The young duke's heart must have burned 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 51 

within him at the double affront to himself and his father, 
but what must his feelings have been if he ever heard 
of the conduct of his mother! The letter which she wrote 
to her son must have sounded cold and trifling even 
to a child; but perhaps the news may have been kept 
from him that she declined to allow Napoleon's name 
to be inserted in the prayers for the dead, and had 
refused his dying wish to have his heart buried in 
Parma. 'It would be a fresh shock to me,' she wrote to 
Francis II. 

So the years passed on, and outwardly 'Napoleon, King 
of Rome,' disappeared more and more completely, and in 
his place stood 'Francis, Duke of Reichstadt.' At twelve 
he became a cadet; at seventeen he was nominated captain 
in the regiment of Chasseurs. 'The spur of honour, and 
the wish to merit such a distinction, have completely 
changed me,' he writes to Foresti on this event, which 
he calls 'the happiest in his hfe,' and adds, 'I wish to 
shake off everything that is childish in me, and become a 
man in the best sense of the word.' But he was not 
allowed to join his regiment, though the Austrian army 
was full of young officers of fewer years than his, and for 
the present he was forced to remain idle, and employ 
himself in riding fiery horses, an exercise for which he 
had a passion. Yet his loyalty was no whit behind that 
of his friends, and for the time being his military ardour 
made him more Austrian than the precepts of his tutors 
could ever have done. 

For the first time since he had crossed the French 
frontier the Duke of Reichstadt had become a person 
of importance. In France Louis XVIII. had been suc- 
ceeded by his brother, Charles X., and a large party of 
discontented people were sowing afresh the seeds of 
revolution. The eyes of the Bourbons turned uneasily 
to Vienna, where the young Napoleon stood by his grand- 
father's side. If the Emperor chose to send him with 
an arm.y across the Rhine, who could tell what fires 



52 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

might not be lighted in Paris? In Vienna rumours 
began to be heard of plots to kidnap or assassinate the 
young duke, and measures were taken to guard him care- 
fully. There was some talk of making him king of the 
newly formed kingdom of Greece, but neither Francis II. 
nor his minister Metternich would listen for a moment 
to the proposal that a Catholic prince should forsake 
his religion and become a member of the Greek Church. 
Then came the news that the Bourbon dynasty had 
been expelled from France. Who w^as to be king? 
Was it to be Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, or 
Napoleon II. ? 

As if by magic fifteen years were blotted out by the 
Parisians, and the remembrance of the great Emperor 
sprang into Hfe. Pictures of Napoleon leading his army 
to victory, portraits of his son at every age, beginning 
with his childhood, when he was a fair-haired, white- 
skinned boy with eyes whose keen, far-seeing glances were 
never a heritage from his Austrian mother, were sold in 
the streets, while the backs of gloves were adorned by his 
image. In the young man himself all his early instincts 
and his worship of his father's memory stirred strongly. 
But the moment passed, and for eighteen years Louis 
Phihppe sat on the throne of France. 

As early as the year 1828 the Duke of Reichstadt began 
to show signs of dehcacy. Always tall for his age, of late 
his growth had been very rapid, and he was now over 
six feet — seven inches taller than his father had been — 
but he became always thinner and thinner. The doctors 
carefully examined him and found great weakness in his 
chest and lungs, and reported the fact to Neipperg, Marie 
Louise's second husband, and to Dietrichstein, the prince's 
governor, a strict and stern though just man, who was not 
Hkely to encourage fancies. But with the coming winter 
the state of the prince's health gave rise to great anxiety. 
'I am forbidden to dance this carnival,' he writes to a 
friend in January; yet though dancing was prohibited he 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 53 

was ordered a course of swimming and cold baths. One 
can only suppose that this was intended to strengthen him, 
but the intense cold of an Austrian winter seems an odd 
moment to begin such treatment. It is hardly surprising 
that it failed, and that his weakness increased as the spring 
advanced, and a summer spent in camp did not improve 
matters. At last, in 1830, a fresh doctor was tried, one 
who had attended several of the Bonapartes, and he was 
horrified at the condition in which he found his patient. 
The duke scarcely ate anything at all, and coughed con- 
tinually, and when at length his dearest wish was about 
to be fulfilled, and he was to accompany his regiment 
into camp, his hopes were dashed to the ground by the 
statement of the doctor that only the greatest care could 
save his hfe. 

The disappointment was bitter. As long as he could 
remember he had dreamed dreams, and they were all of 
miUtary glory. He was to prove himself his father's son, 
was to carry on worthily the name and traditions that 

had been left him, and now But once again he 

practised the concealment of his feelings which he had 
so early learnt, and bore his pain in silence. It was during 
this time that the Revolution in France took place which 
caused the downfall of Charles X., and caused the dying 
prince to become of such sudden importance. By the 
Emperor's orders an establishment was formed for him, 
and in the spring, when he reached his twentieth birth- 
day, his tutors were dismissed. His health was no better, 
perhaps even worse, but it did not suit Metternich, 
the Emperor's chief Minister, to notice this; in spite of 
the remonstrances of the doctor, the prince was again 
allowed to join his regiment and take part in the 
manoeuvres. 

Ill though the duke felt, at last he was happy. His 
miHtary duties were well done, and, Hke his father, he had 
the genius to make himself loved by his soldiers. For a 
time his strong will carried him along, but one day in 



54 HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 

giving orders to his troops his voice failed him. He made 
light of it, and said he had strained it unnecessarily, and 
that he would soon learn to manage it better; but a bad 
attack of fever v^^hich followed shortly after obliged him 
unwillingly to quit the camp, and to go for a change to 
Schonbrunn. Here, in the country, his health improved, 
but in a short time the fever returned, and left him too 
weak to care about anything. So passed the summer and 
autumn; but in the early spring his health began to mend, 
and with renewed strength came a sudden longing for 
the old pleasures. The doctor, thinking it would do the 
prince more harm to thwart him than to let him have his 
way, gave him permission to take a quiet ride; but the 
moment he once more felt a horse under him, he threw 
prudence to the winds and galloped madly round the park, 
till both horse and rider w^ere quite exhausted. And as if 
this was not enough, he insisted, wet though it was, in 
going for a drive in the evening. Unfortunately the car- 
riage broke down, and no other was at hand. He had 
only one attendant with him, and the officer did not dare 
to leave him alone in the cold, shelterless place. There 
was therefore nothing for it but to walk back to Vienna, 
but it was quite plain that the prince scarcely had power 
to drag himself there. It was really a very short distance, 
but to the invalid the way seemed endless, and he had 
hardly reached the first houses w^hen he staggered and 
fell. 

From this period his state was practically hopeless, 
though he would sometimes surprise his doctors by sudden 
if short-lived improvements. When the warm weather 
came he was taken to Schonbrunn and fed at first on asses' 
milk. But his cough prevented his sleeping; he ate almost 
nothing, and it was evident to all who saw him that the 
end could not be far off. Then, and only then, did his. 
mother consent to come to him, and the Viennese, who 
had always loved the ill-fated boy, said bitter things about 
her indifference. But the young Napoleon said no bitter 



HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME 55 

things; he only smiled and welcomed her. Even at this 
time, though every symptom showed that death was close 
at hand, his mother could not bring herself to remain 
with him. Short visits in the day and one before she 
went to bed were all she thought needful. Another woman 
would have known that for her own sake it would have 
been well to have pretended, if she did not feel, a httle 
more motherly love, but from first to last Marie Louise 
had been too stupid to guess how people would judge 
her. 

In the night of July 22, 1832, he awoke from a feverish 
sleep crying out, 'I am dying,' and directy after he added, 
'Call my mother.' He was past speaking when she came, 
followed by her brother, but he looked at her and feebly 
moved his head. Then the prayers for the dying were 
said, and at five o'clock his sufferings were over. 

In the chapel of the Capuchins at Vienna his body lies 
amongst the tombs of the Hapsburgs, parted from his 
father in death as he had been in life. Yet, faithless and 
cold-hearted as she was, his mother did not dare refuse 
him at the last the name she had so hated and disgraced, 
and he stands forth to the world, not as the 'son of Marie 
Louise' alone, as he had been called hitherto, but as the 
'Son of Napoleon.' 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

It was a cold day in January 1528 when Jeanne de 
Navarre was born in the royal castle of Fontainebleau. 
Most of her relations were remarkable people, famous 
even then for their cleverness and strong wills, and her 
mother, Marguerite d'Angouleme, sister of Francis I., 
was distinguished above them all for her learning. But 
Marguerite was better than learned, she was wise, and 
she thought that her Httle daughter would be much hap- 
pier away from Court, with other children to play with, 
than in travelling about the rough roads and small moun- 
tain towns that formed a large part of the kingdom of 
Navarre, or in crossing the wide rivers that lay between 
the Pyrenees and the city of Paris. For Paris was the 
home of Francis I., whom Marguerite loved better than 
her husband, her mother, or her little girl. So in a few 
days the baby was quietly christened in the private chapel 
of the chateau, and when she was a month old was very 
warmly wrapped up, and taken in a big heavy carriage 
drawn by eight horses to a place near Alenfon where 
lived her mother's great friend, Madame de Silly, wife of 
the Bailiff of Caen. Here, in company with Madame de 
Silly's own children, Jeanne left her babyhood behind 
her. She was very strong, and very lively and mischievous 
besides; it was she who led the others into mischief, who 
would tuck up the long silk frock worn by Httle girls in 
those days, and cHmb trees after rosy apples, or persuade 
one of the boys to get up very early and go with her for 
hours into the woods on the hills, till Madame de Silly and 

56 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 51 

everybody else were frightened out of their wits. Nothing 
ever frightened Jeanne, and she only laughed at the punish- 
ments dealt out to her. 

' Oh, yes, I promise not to do it again — not till next 
time,' she would say; and her eyes looked up so merrily 
into the eyes of Madame de Silly that the scolding suddenly 
stopped. 

The only thing that ever made Jeanne really sorry 
for her naughty tricks was when Madame de Silly talked 
to her about her mother, whom the child loved deeply, 
though she saw her so seldom. To grow up like her was 
Jeanne's great wish, even when she was quite a baby; 
and as her mother loved the king, her uncle, so much, 
why, of course, she must love him too. Every now and 
then Francis I. sent for her to the palace of St. Germain, 
to play with her cousins. Princess Madeleine, who was 
afterwards to be queen of Scotland, and Marguerite, 
the future duchess of Savoy. The two Httle princesses 
were both deHcate, and could not ride and jump and 
run like Jeanne, who was besides the prettiest of the 
three, so she was petted and spoilt and flattered by all, 
and when she went back to Lonray, she gave herself 
all sorts of airs, till you would have thought she was not 
made of flesh and blood at all, or just a child hke the 
rest. 

By-and-by Jeanne's father. King Henry of Navarre, 
grew tired of danghng about the French Court, where 
nobody took much notice of him, and proposed going 
for a time to Kve in his own kingdom in the south of 
France. Marguerite was herself weary of tournaments and 
pageants and constant banquets, and pined for leisure to 
read books, and to write poetry. So she gladly gave her 
consent, and wished to take Jeanne with her, that they 
might get to know one another. But to this Francis 
would not agree. He knew — or guessed — that the 
Emperor Charles V., King of Spain, desired to bring 
about a marriage between his son Philip, prince of the 



58 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

Asturias, and the heiress of Navarre, and such a mar- 
riage would mean that the King of Spain would also be 
lord of a great part of France. If Jeanne even approached 
the frontier who could say what might happen? There- 
fore, to the grief of her mother and the great wrath of 
her father, she was to remain in France as the ward of 
the king. However, to make things as pleasant as he 
could, Francis announced his desire to betrothe the 
princess to his second son, Henry, Duke of Orleans, 
a boy of twelve, even then showing signs of the silent 
and melancholy character which distinguished him in later 
years. 

• The prospect of this alliance delighted both the king 
and queen of Navarre, but in spite of it Marguerite refused 
to allow Jeanne to live at the Court and be brought up 
with her cousins. After much talk, it was arranged that 
the gloomy castle of Plessis-les-Tours should be her resi- 
dence, and here she was to dwell in state under the care 
of Madame de Silly, with a bishop, two chaplains, and a 
poet, to look after her education, and some other children, 
probably the daughters of great nobles, for her to play 
with. 

Considering how many large and beautiful castles were 
owned by Francis, it seems strange that he should have 
chosen such a dismal place as Plessis for a child to be 
brought up in. The thick forests by which it was sur- 
rounded kept out the sun, and even Jeanne's high spirits 
were awed by the dark memories of Louis XL which 
filled every corner — by the deep holes, or oubliettes, through 
which a man might be thrust — and forgotten; by Car- 
dinal La Balue's iron cage. She was still, in spite of 
her strength and cleverness, a very little girl, and she 
often lay awake at night half afraid and half fascinated, 
wondering what she would have thought about all day 
long in that iron cage, and making plans how to get out 
of it. 

As has been said, Jeanne desired in all things to re- 



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THE PRINCESS JEANNE 59 

semble her mother, and worked hard at her lessons; she 
learned several languages, besides the history of France, 
and Navarre, and Spain, and a little about that strange 
country England, v^^hose king, Henry VIII., had stirred 
up the Church and disobeyed his Holy Father the Pope, 
in his refusal to allow Henry to put away his wife 
Katharine of Aragon,. and marry somebody else. In after 
years Jeanne disobeyed the Pope in other ways, and taught 
her son to do so also; but at Plessis her sharp little ears 
picked up all that was said about Henry VIII. and his 
three wives, and her sharp little mind was horrified at 
the bare idea of revolting against the Holy Father. She 
came to know many of the poems of Monsieur Pierre 
Ronsard and Joachim du Bellay by heart; but best of 
all she liked the songs of Louis, Duke of Orleans. She 
even struggled to write poems herself; but she had sense 
enough to see that they were not good enough to waste her 
time on. On wet or cold days, when the wind whistled 
through the forest and the old towers, she and her friends 
would dance in the hall, or sing songs together in the fire- 
light. 

Sometimes the castle was turned upside down by the 
news that the king was coming to pay his niece a visit. 
Poor Madame de Silly rather dreaded these grand occa- 
sions, for Jeanne was apt to have her head turned by her 
uncle, who encouraged her to say what she liked, and only 
laughed when she answered him pertly. He was amused, 
too, by the. way in which she stuck to any plan she had 
formed, and, if he refused his consent one day, would 
begin all over again the next. Very often she got her own 
way through sheer obstinacy, and Madame de Silly would 
sigh as she looked on, for she knew that it would take 
some time after the king's departure to get Jeanne into 
order again. 

And when Jeanne was tiresome she could be very tire- 
some indeed. She not only had a quick tongue, but a 
quick temper, and would despise and even ill-treat anyone 



60 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

who was not so determined as herself. When she was 
ten years old her aunt, the Vicomtesse de Rohan, came 
to live at Plessis with some of her children, for her husband 
had lost so much money that they had almost nothing to 
live on. The eldest girL Franfoise, had already gone to 
live at Pau with Queen Marguerite, which made Jeanne 
bitterly jealous, so that when she heard from Madame de 
Silly that her cousin was to be left at Plessis while the 
Queen of Navarre went to Court, she was thoroughly 
prepared to disHke her and everything she did. If only 
Mademoiselle de Rohan had behaved to Jeanne as Jeanne 
behaved to her they would soon have made friends; but, 
unluckily, she was easily frightened, and would give up 
anything sooner than quarrel about it. She was lazy, too, 
and preferred sitting over her embroidery to joining in 
the rough games in which Jeanne delighted. Of course 
she was not allowed to have her way, and was forced, 
Httle as she hked it, to go with the rest; but Jeanne, who 
played as earnestly as she did everything else, was speedily 
provoked by the hstless Franfoise, and even went so 
far as to give her a hard slap as a punishment for 
her indolence. Mademoiselle de Rohan did not slap 
her back, but she had weapons of her own which 
stung as well. When Marguerite returned to fetch her 
on her road to Pau, a poem of 'Farewell to Plessis' 
was left behind, each lady in the queen's suite writing 
one verse. The stanza composed by Franjoise, whose 
poetical gifts were greater than her cousin's, ran as 
follows : 

Farewell, dear hand, farewell, I say, 

That used to slap me every day; 

And yet I love the slapper so, 

It breaks my heart that I must go! 

No doubt Queen Marguerite heard all the story from 
Madame de Silly, and scolded her daughter, and no 
doubt also that when Jeanne recovered her temper she 
felt very much ashamed of her rudeness. All her life 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 61 

she was absolutely truthful, whatever it might cost her, 
and when she had done wrong, and knew it, she never 
made excuses for herself, but accepted manfully the pun- 
ishment that was given her. But though Jeanne was 
pleased enough to say good-bye to Franfoise, she was 
extremely sorry to part from Mademoiselle de Grammont, 
who was three years older than herself, and a very clever 
and decided young lady, who at thirteen thought herself 
a woman, and wrote some pretty Hnes to Jeanne on her 
departure from Plessis, assuring the princess that she 
would never cease to love her all her Hfe, and that when 
they were both married, which would probably be soon, 
they would crave their husbands' permission to meet 
often. 

After all the excitement was over, and everyday habits 
were resumed, Jeanne began to feel very dull indeed. 
Her lessons ceased to interest her, and she no longer cared 
for games, but would hsten eagerly to the dark tales of 
cruel deeds done by Louis XI. more than fifty years be- 
fore, which you may read about in 'Quentin Durward,' 
by Sir Walter Scott. Her mind seemed to brood over 
them, and Madame de Silly would gladly have welcomed 
some of the mischievous pranks, which had formerly been 
Jeanne's delight, rather than watch her growing pale and 
thin, gazing out of the narrow windows into the dripping 
forest, yet seeing nothing that was before her. When this 
had gone on for many weeks Madame de Silly became 
really frightened, and told Jeanne that if she was unhappy 
where she was she had better write to the king and her 
mother and tell them so, and perhaps they would allow 
her to leave. Jeanne brightened a little at the thought 
of getting away, and Madame de Silly, who noticed this, 
added letters of her own both to Francis and to Margue- 
rite, pointing out that if the princess was kept there much 
longer her health would probably break down alto- 
gether. 

Jeanne was, as usual, standing at the window when the; 



62 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

two men-at-arms rode out through the great gate of the 
castle. Many days would pass, she knew, before they 
could come back again; but still — surely her mother 
would listen to her prayers, and not leave her in that hor- 
rible place, where she would soon die, and then^ perhaps, 
they would be sorry they had treated her so unkindly! 
And Jeanne burst into tears at the sad picture she had 
made for herself. About three days later the messenger 
who had ridden to Francis at Amboise returned to Plessis, 
and handed Jeanne a letter. Her heart beat with excite- 
ment as she cut the strings wrapped round it, and so eager 
was she to know her fate that the words seemed to dance 
under her eyes. Then she looked up with the face of the 
old Jeanne once more. 'I'm going! I'm going!' she cried, 
tossing the king's letter in the air. 'I'm going to Pau at 
last. To live there — do you understand, INIadame ? But 
first the king is coming to see me, for he has not been here 
for a long time, and he fears I may have forgotten him. 
I wonder if I have any dresses fit to welcome him, for I 
have grown so tall — nearly as tall as you, Madame la 
bailKve de Caen.' 

Madame de Silly smiled at her pleasure; yet she was 
a little uneasy also, for she too had heard from the king, 
and he had told her something which he, had hidden from 
Jeanne. He spoke of a marriage he wished to arrange 
between his niece and the young Duke of Cleves, a Lu- 
theran prince, part of whose duchy had been seized by 
the emperor. If, said the king, Jeanne were once wedded 
to the Duke of Cleves there would be an end to the project 
of her marriage with the Prince of the Asturias — and 
there would be an end, he might likewise have added, of 
the long-talked of match with his own son, the Duke of 
Orleans! But this had conveniently slipped from his mind, 
and he only remembered that by this alliance he would 
get the better of his life-long enemy, the King of Spain. 
If Francis had forgotten the early betrothal of Jeanne 
and her cousin, the King of Navarre most certainly had 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 



63 



not, and great was his rage on receiving his brother-in- 
law's letter, which had arrived some time before Jeanne's. 
He was naturally angry at the hardly veiled contempt 
with which the King of France always treated him, and 




JEANNE AND THE KING 



felt very sore with his wife for suffering it, and for always 
taking her brother's part against himself. Then, for rea- 
sons of state, he thought the marriage a very undesirable 



64 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

one, and when he laid the matter before his council they 
entirely agreed with him. Unluckily, however, Jeanne was 
in the power of the King of France, who made hardly any 
secret of his intention to invade Navarre should her father, 
Henri d'Albret, refuse his consent. In case of war, the 
country would inevitably fall to the lot of either France or 
Spain, and with a sullen face and heavy heart Henri desired 
his wife to inform her brother that he might do as he willed 
in the matter. Of course, when once he got his way, 
Francis was all smiles and gracious words again, and he 
instantly repHed that as soon as the betrothal ceremony 
had been performed Jeanne should join her mother and 
remain with her till she was fifteen. For, said he, he con- 
sidered that she was at present of too tender years to take 
on herself the cares of the married state. And with that 
prospect, Henri who passionately loved his daughter, had 
to be content. 

It was on a brilHant spring morning that Francis set 
out from the castle of Amboise to hunt in the forests on 
the banks of the river. For a while he seemed, as usual, 
eager for the chase, then suddenly he let it sweep past 
him, and, signing to two or three of his most constant 
attendants, galloped down the road to Plessis-les-Tours, 
and was pealing at the great bell before Jeanne had any 
time to think of her clothes. 

'Oh, Sire, what happiness to see you!' she cried, throw- 
ing her arms round his neck. 'And look, am I not tall? 
and a woman grown, though my twelfth birthday is not 
long past!' 

'A woman indeed, and beautiful withal! A woman 
ready for a husband! Is it not so, Jeanne?' And as he 
spoke Francis gazed at her steadily, and Jeanne dropped 
her eyes and blushed, though why she did not know. The 
story was soon told; the Duke of Cleves, rich, young, 
handsome, accomplished, brother of the lately wedded 
Queen of England, was to be the bridegroom of the heiress 
of Navarre, just half his age. There was no time to be lost. 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 65 

and she must make ready to join her mother at Alenjon, 
where the contract was to be signed. The king expected 
some astonishment, perhaps a little hesitation; but he cer- 
tainly did not expect the burst of tears which greeted his 
news, still less her 'humble petition' to the king's grace 
that she might not be forced into the marriage. 

'Why, what do you mean? he is a cavaHer in a thou- 
sand,' Francis exclaimed angrily, and Jeanne could give 
no answer. The duke sounded all that a maiden could 
dream of, but — she did not want him for a husband. 
So her tears flowed afresh, and the king, finding her still 
silent, bade her remember that he should expect to see her 
in Paris on her way to Alenfon in a week, and returned to 
Amboise in a very bad temper. 

Left to herself, Jeanne continued to cry for some time; 
then she dried her eyes, and wondered why she so hated 
the thought of marrying the duke. It was not any love 
she had for her cousin, though like her father she felt a 
rush of indignation when she thought of the way she had 
been used and thrown aside — no, it was something quite 
different. What could it be? In a moment the answer 
came to her: Oh, no! no! she could never leave France; 
'France,' which was more to her than anything in the 
world except her mother! And after all, she reflected, 
holding up her head, they could not marry her against her 
will — her, the heiress of Navarre, and a person of great 
importance. With that smiles came back to her face, and 
she went quite cheerfully to give orders to her maids, not 
knowing, poor little girl, that it was exactly because she was 
'a person of great importance' that it was so difficult for 
her to be happy. 

Quite firm in her resolve, Jeanne rode out from Plessis 
two days after, accompanied by Madame de Silly, and 
followed by the chief officers of the household and a guard 
of soldiers. Her spirits rose as they left the gloomy woods 
and gloomier towers behind them, and passed into the 
spring sunshine, and the lovely gardens of the valley of 
6 



66 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

the Loire. Much too spon for Jeanne's wishes they reached 
Paris, and went straight to the palace of the Louvre. After 
she had changed her riding dress for a beautiful garment 
of blue velvet, with a chemisette and high collar of fine 
lace, she was summoned to the king's apartments, where 
he stood with the Duke of Cleves. If Jeanne had not 
been so determined to hate hirh, she would have been 
forced to admit that he was very handsome and manly, 
and that he moved and spoke with the ease and grace so 
highly prized in the Court of France. As it was, she 
stared at him rudely, and would scarcely answer any of 
his pretty speeches, and altogether (if she could only have 
known it) behaved more like the naughty little girl she 
was than like the grown-up woman she thought herself to 
be. As was natural, nothing came of this conduct, except 
that the king became extremely angry with her, and Madame 
de Silly was obliged to give her a scolding, and show her 
that she would not advance her cause with her uncle, 
whose mind was set on the marriage, and only make her 
future husband to despise and disHke her. 

'I certainly fail to see what I am to gain by leaving 
France and my own kingdom in order to marry a duke of 
Cleves,' Jeanne answered contemptuously; and her gov- 
erness, knowing that in this mood nothing was to be done 
with her, left her to herself. Later in the day, Madame de 
Silly was sent for by Francis, whom she found much enraged 
by Jeanne's obstinacy. 

'You will both set out for Alen^on to-morrow morning,' 
he said sternly, ' and you will inform the Queen of Navarre 
of what has happened. I will see the princess no more till 
she has learned to obey me.' The news of her daughter's 
behaviour and her brother's displeasure sorely grieved 
Queen Marguerite. Giving Jeanne no time to rest after 
her long ride, she went at once to her chamber, and begged 
the girl to tell her all that had happened from the very 
beginning. The queen listened with anger and surprise 
to her daughter's account of her first interview with the 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 67 

king, whose lightest word had always been law to her; but 
Jeanne no more feared her mother than she did her uncle, 
and could not be induced either to express any regret for 
what she had done or to promise obedience for the future. 
So, with a troubled countenance, the queen left the room, 
and sat down to write to Francis. 

To our eyes her letter seems rather slavish, and as if 
she possessed no rights in her own child. She assures the 
king that Jeanne's parents 'had no will but his,' and that 
her father was 'more indignant at his daughter's conduct 
than he had ever been about anything.' This was hardly 
the truth, as Marguerite could scarcely have forgotten her 
husband's wrath when the marriage was first proposed, 
and even if he now thought it wiser to change his tone 
so as not to irritate his brother-in-law further, she was 
too clever a woman to be deceived in this, and must have 
guessed that, strong-willed though Jeanne was, she would 
not have dared to withstand them all if she had not been 
sure of the approval of her father. The visit to Alenjon 
must have been rather unpleasant for everyone, for when 
the queen was not employed in trying to persuade her 
daughter to comply with her uncle's desire, she was en- 
gaged in teaching her some of the principles of the Reformed 
religion, professed, as has been said, by the Duke of Cleves. 
As Jeanne was at this time a devout Catholic, these lessons 
only served to exasperate her further, and it was probably 
a relief to all three when the Bishop of Seez, to whom 
the queen had entrusted the letter, returned with the 
answer. 

It was very short, merely stating that the Queen of 
Navarre was to arrange without delay the ceremony of 
betrothal between her daughter and the Duke of Cleves, 
and this being over they were to go at once to Chatel- 
herault, where the actual marriage would publicly take 
place. As to Marguerite's assurances of grief and abase- 
ment, scant notice was vouchsafed to them. Though 
Jeanne was her own daughter, and only twelve years old, 



68 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

the queen felt very uncomfortable as she walked up the 
narrow winding turret staircase which led to the girl's 
rooms. Jeanne turned first red and then white as she 
glanced at the letter in her mother's hand, but she listened 
without interruption while it was being read out to her. 
The queen was a little surprised at this, and felt she was 
getting on better than she expected; but when she had 
ended, and raised her eyes to Jeanne's face, what she saw 
there froze her into silence. In a moment more the storm 
broke, and such a torrent of reproaches flowed from the 
princess — reproaches as to the sacrifice that was to be 
made of her, of the misery to which they wished to con- 
demn her, and of her firm resolve never to utter the vows 
which would make her the duke's wife — that for a while 
the queen felt quite stunned. It was seldom indeed 
that a mother of those days listened to such words from 
her daughter. At length she recovered her presence of 
mind. 

'Cease, Jeanne,' she said, laying her hand on the child's 
shoulder, 'is it thus you have learned your duty to me? 
Be quiet instantly, or I shall have to whip, you as if you 
were a little girl again.' 

The outburst of fury had somewhat exhausted Jeanne, 
and she felt rather ashamed of her anger. Not because, 
as she told herself eagerly, she retracted anything — it 
was all quite true; but perhaps she had behaved in an 
undignified way, and in a manner unbecoming a prin- 
cess. So she made no reply, but began to think out 
another plan, and the result was a paper protesting at 
being forced against her will into this marriage. If she 
really composed it — it is certainly written in her own 
hand — it is surprisingly clever for a child of twelve; 
but it is possible that she may have been helped by one 
of the three officials who w^ere witnesses of her signature. 
In any case, however, it was of no use, for the betrothal 
took place as arranged, and the public marriage at Chatel- 
herault followed it. Outwardly, Jeanne had resolved to 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 69 

accept the fate which she could not escape, but before 
leaving Alenfon she wrote a second protest, declaring 
that as her vows were only made under force and not 
freely, they were null and void, and the marriage no 
marriage, 

Francis I. was much relieved when he saw his niece 
ride up to the gate of the castle. Powerful though he 
was, Jeanne's opposition had caused him to feel uneasy 
as well as irritated; he could not have told what he feared, 
but he was aware that a burden rolled off him as she dis- 
mounted from her horse and walked towards the great 
door. He left the windows at once, in order to welcome 
her, so he did not notice the bridegroom hold out his hand 
to lead her up the steps, nor the air with which the bride 
repulsed him. Poor bridegroom! he was having a very 
unpleasant time, and it was well for him that he had a 
charming mother-in-law to talk to, who more than made 
up for the loss of her sulky daughter. 

By the king's orders the marriage festivities were to 
be on the grandest possible scale, and Marguerite had 
given special care to Jeanne's dress. The jewels on her 
long robe of cloth of gold dazzled the eyes of the spec- 
tators, and her velvet mantle was broidered with ermine. 
No wonder that on a hot July day the weight of these 
clothes felt enormous, and Jeanne had some show of reason 
on her side when she told her uncle, who came forward 
to lead her to the altar, that she really could not move 
from her chair. Francis was naturally very much pro- 
voked, but not deigning to notice such childish behaviour, 
he turned to the constable, M. de Montmorency, and bade 
him carry the bride into the chapel. The constable ful- 
filled his orders, and set down Jeanne in her place by the 
side of the duke, the royal family feeling truly thankfu' 
that she had not kicked or struggled, as they fully expected 
her to do. 

After the quiet Hfe she had led at Plessis the splendid 
ceremonies of her marriage, and particularly the banquet 



70 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 



and ball that followed it, interested Jeanne very much, 
though she would have died rather than show it. She 




\/Jga,nne^^ racUngss to the BaXe of Cleve5 



even contrived to keep all her eagerness out of her eyes, 
and sat there, like a little wooden image, till the Queen 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 71 

of Navarre would gladly have given her the whipping 
she deserved. When the ball was over, and she was alone 
with her mother (in whose care she was to spend the next 
two or three years) she was scolded severely for her child- 
ishness, but all in vain. Not one smile could be detected 
on her face as she occupied the place of honour at the 
tournaments that were held during eight days and nights 
in the great meadow adjoining the castle, or walked 
among the tents of twisted branches where dwelt hermits 
clad in velvet, green as the trees, who undertook the 
charge of any strange knights till they could fight in 
the tourney. All this she enjoyed secretly, and better 
still did she Hke the fairies and water sprites who peopled 
the woods and hovered on the banks of the stream, though 
she resolutely kept silence, instead of speaking to them 
graciously, as she knew quite well it was her duty to 
do. In fact Jeanne was as tiresome and perverse as a 
little girl could be, but in her own heart she thought 
herself very grand and dignified, and the more she saw 
everyone put out by her conduct the better she was 
pleased. 

At length it was all over; the bridegroom took his leave 
and returned to fight against the emperor, and the 
king and queen of Navarre took theirs also, and started 
for Beam. For the first time in her life Marguerite was 
thankful to part from her beloved brother. She had 
passed a miserable fortnight, never feeling sure what 
her daughter might do next, and generally being much 
ashamed of what she did. But when they had left the 
Loire behind them, and were entering the country which 
'Madame la Duchesse de Cleves' had never visited since 
she was a tiny child, Jeanne threw off her injured airs 
and became the eager, observant girl she naturally was. 
Oh, how happy she felt to see Nerac again, and to spend 
the autumn in the free wild country where the sun shone, 
and the wind blew fresh from the mountains! She forgot 
at times (in spite of her title) that such a being as the 



72 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

Duke of Cleves existed, and she behaved so well, both 
at Nerac and at Pau, during the following winter, that 
Marguerite used to wonder if those terrible festivities had 
really only taken place a few months ago. During part 
of the day Jeanne was taught many things by her mother, 
and learned all the quicker for having the queen's maids 
of honour to share her lessons. In the evening she talked 
with some of the members of the Reformed religion, to 
whom the Court of Navarre was always open. Grad- 
ually she began to feel drawn to their doctrines, and 
probably would have adopted them altogether but for the 
fact that the Duke of Cleves had long ceased to be a 
Catholic. 

So two years slipped happily by. Jeanne, without be- 
coming less truthful, had grown more gentle, and more 
humble also. She no longer dwelt with pride on the 
thought of her behaviour on her wedding-day, but if she 
was alone her cheeks even flushed red at the recollec- 
tion of it. She was kind and pleasant to everyone she 
met with, and would chatter to the people in the curious 
patois which they spoke. She felt as if she had lived in 
Beam for ever, and that Plessis and Alen^on were a 
dream. Then, one morning, the Cardinal du Bellay rode 
into Pau, and craved an audience of Madame la Duchesse 
de Cleves. When admitted to her presence he delivered 
a letter from the King of France bidding Jeanne set 
out at once under the Cardinal's escort, and join him 
at Luxembourg, from which he would take her to Aix, 
where the Duke of Cleves then was. A frantic burst of 
tears was the only answer the cardinal received; but at 
last Jeanne found words, and declared that she would 
die if she was dragged away from her beloved Pau. Her 
mother, whom she hastily summoned, as usual took the 
side of the king; but her father wept with her, and as- 
sured her that if she was forced to go on this journey he 
would go with her. Henri was powerless to deHver her, 
as Jeanne well knew ; still his presence was a comfort, and 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 73 

in two days the sad little procession took the northern 
road. 

Meanwhile events across the Rhine had marched rap- 
idly, and, unknown to Francis, the Duke of Cleves had 
done homage to the emperor, who had invaded his duchy. 
It was not until the treaty was actually signed by the 
duke that notice was sent to Francis of the matter, and 
with it went a letter requesting that the princess Jeanne 
might be sent immediately to Aix to take up her position 
as Duchesse of Cleves. The terms of the letter were of 
course dictated by the emperor, and were not intended 
to soothe Francis. The king's first act was to despatch 
a messenger to Soissons, to meet Jeanne, who was to rest 
there for a day or two, after her long journey. At mid- 
night she was awakened from a sound sleep by a clatter 
in the courtyard beneath her windows, and a few minutes 
later one of her maids brought a message that the cardi- 
nal would feel greatly honoured if the princess would see 
him for a few minutes. Wearily Jeanne suffered her 
ladies to dress her, and dropping into a chair, waited to 
hear what the cardinal had to say. Nothing pleasant it 
could be, for did not every hour bring closer her farewell 
to France, and her Hfe among people that she hated. 
Bowing low, the cardinal entered, bearing the despatch, 
which he presented to Jeanne. 

'Read it,' she said, in a tired voice, waving her hand; 
and the cardinal read it. As he went on her fatigue sud- 
denly disappeared; she leaned eagerly forward, her eyes 
bright and her cheeks glowing. 'What is it you say? 
That the king will see that my marriage — my hateful 
marriage — shall be set aside, and that I am to go at once 
to Queen Eleanor at Fontainebleau ? Oh, what joy! what 
a deHverance!' Jeanne's rapture was shared by her father, 
and next day they travelled, with very different feelings, 
over the road they had just come. 

To judge by her letters. Queen Marguerite seems to 
have been more angry at the way in which her daughter 



74 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 



— and her brother — had been treated than relieved at 
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Steps were at once taken, not only by the King of France, 
but by the Duke of Cleves, to implore from the Pope a 
dispensation setting aside the marriage contracted on July 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 15 

15, 1540. And as the reason given for the appeal was 
the fact that the marriage had been forced on the bride 
against her will, the 'protests' were produced as evidence, 
and Jeanne felt with pride they had not been drawn up 
for nothing. Indeed, she was bidden by Francis to write 
a third one, which was sent straight to Pope Paul III. 
But royal marriages are neither made nor marred in a 
day, and a year and a half dragged by before Jeanne 
was a free woman again. After some months spent with 
her mother at Alenjon, she returned to Plessis, with Ma- 
dame de Silly, to await alone the decision of the Pope. 
Here in the chapel, on Easter Day, Jeanne addressed the 
bishops and nobles assembled to hear High Mass, and 
read to them a short statement of the events relating to 
her marriage five years before, begging that the Cardinal 
de Tournon might be sent to Rome without delay. This 
time Pope Paul HI. paid more attention to the matter 
than he had done before, and by Whitsuntide the contract 
was annulled, and Jeanne and her bridegroom henceforth 
were strangers. 

Strange to say, even after she was set free, Jeanne 
appears to have spent a considerable time at Plessis — 
which, as we know, she hated nearly as much as she did 
the Duke of Cleves — for she was still there when she 
heard of the death of Francis I. in the s-pring of 1547. 
She at once joined her father, but does not seem to 
have tried to console her mother, who was broken-hearted, 
and henceforth gave up the life and studies, in which 
she had so much dehghted, for the service of the poor. 
Many years previously Francis had married his son 
Henri to the young Catherine de Medici, who now sat 
on the throne of France, where the King of Navarre 
had thought to have placed his daughter. Henri 
was a very different man from Francis: he was shy and 
gloomy, and he had not the gay and pleasant manners 
of his father, and his affections were given to a wholly 
different set of friends. But on hearing of the fresh 



76 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

advances made by the Emperor Charles to the King of 
Navarre for a union between Jeanne and the young 
widower, PhiHp of Spain, Henri bethought him of the 
danger from Spain which was so prominently before the 
eyes of his father, and summoned Jeanne, then nearly 
twenty, to Fontainebleau. So seldom had the princess 
been at Court that she was almost a stranger, but her 
high spirits and quick tongue made her a favourite with 
most people. Queen Catherine, however, did not Hke her; 
she could not understand Jeanne, or the bold way in which 
she set forth her views. Speech, according to Catherine, 
was given you to hide your thoughts, and not to display 
them; while Jeanne thought the queen's elaborate com- 
phments and constant reserve very tiresome, and avoided 
her as much as possible. 'How cold Catherine was, and 
how stingy,' said Jeanne to herself. 'She did not seem 
to care for anybody, even her own children, while as for 
gratitude' — and, with her head held high, Jeanne sat 
down to write a letter respecting the care of her old 
nurse. 

Of course, no sooner did the handsome young heiress 
appear at Court than suitors for her hand appeared also. 
The king favoured the claims of Francois, duke of Guise, 
afterwards the captor of Calais; but Jeanne declared that 
her husband must be of royal blood, and asked Henri how 
she could suffer the Duchesse d'Aumale, who now thought 
it an honour to bear her train, to walk beside her as her 
sister-in-law? Perhaps, being a man, the case might not 
have seemed as impossible to Henri as it did to Jeanne; 
but one thing was quite clear to him, and that was that 
he could never obtain the consent of the lady, so he wisely 
let the matter drop. The other suitor was Antoine de 
Bourbon, eldest son of the Due de Vendome, and nephew, 
by her first husband, of Marguerite. Antoine was now 
about thirty, a tall, handsome man, and a leader of fashion; 
but, had she known it, Jeanne would have been much 
happier as the wife of Francois de Guise. For the Due 



THE PRINCESS JEANNE 77 

de Vendome, though brave and fascinating, was absolutely 
untrustworthy. His word was lightly given, and Hghtly 
broken; his friends were always changing, and only his 
love of pleasure and love of ease remained the same. As 
to the king and queen of Navarre, their opinions were, 
as usual, divided. Henri d'Albret did not Hke his pro- 
posed son-in-law — he was too thoughtless, and too extrav- 
agant; while Marguerite, on the contrary, was prepared 
to overlook everything, seeing he was the first prince of 
the blood, and, hke his brother Conde, an advocate of the 
Reformed religion. She did not pause to ask herself how 
far his Hfe gave evidence of any rehgion at all! However, 
also as usual, the wishes of the King of Navarre were 
once more thwarted, and Jeanne, her mother, and Henri II. 
proved too much for him. The marriage took place at 
the town of MouHns, at the end of October 1548, when 
the bride was nearly twenty-one, the King and Queen of 
France being present at the ceremony. The King of Na- 
varre did all he could to prevent his daughter's dowry 
from being wasted by declaring that it should only be 
paid in instalments, while the queen stipulated in the 
contract that Jeanne should have absolute control over 
the bringing up of her children till they were eighteen years 
of age. 

The future life of Jeanne, married to a man like the 
Due de Vendome, was certain to be unhappy, and the 
state of France, with its perpetual rehgious wars, could 
only increase that unhappiness. As far as possible she 
stayed in her own kingdom, and kept her son, afterwards 
Henri IV., living a free, hardy Hfe among the mountains. 
But there were times when pohcy forced her to visit the 
Court of Catherine, whom she hated and mistrusted, and, 
what was infinitely worse, to leave her son there. His 
tutors were men of the Reformed religion, but Henri had 
too much of his father in him for any faith to take root, 
and when he had to decide between Calvinism and a 
crown, it was easy to tell what his choice would be. But 



78 THE PRINCESS JEANNE 

Jeanne was spared the knowledge of that, and of much 
else that would have grieved her sorely, for she died in 
Paris, whither she had gone to attend the marriage of 
Henri and the Princess Margot, a few days before the 
Massacre of St. Bartholomew. 



HACON THE KING 

When little Hacon, son of the dead king Hacon, and 
grandson of Sverrir, was born at Smaalen, in Norway, in 
the summer of 1204, the country was divided into two 
great parties. In the south were gathered the Croziermen, 
or churchmen, supported by the King of Denmark, while 
further north lay the followers of old Sverrir, who had 
been nicknamed 'Birchlegs' from the gaiters of birch- 
bark which they always wore. In those days men needed 
a king to keep order, and after the death of Hacon, son 
of Sverrir, the great council, called the Thing, met to 
consult about the matter. The first king they chose died 
in a few months, and then Ingi, his kinsman, was put in 
his place. But when the child of Hacon and Inga proved 
to be a boy the Birchlegs declared that he and none other 
should rule over them. Now the Croziermen were spread 
all over the south and east of Norway, and, as Smaalen 
was right in the middle of them, a few Birchlegs 
went secretly to Inga, the child's mother, and told her 
that for a time the baby must be hidden away so that 
no man should know where he was; for they feared 
King Ingi. 

So Thrond the priest took the boy and gave him the 
name of his father, and his wife cared for him as her own, 
and no one knew he was a king's son, save only herself and 
her two boys. And Inga his mother abode close by. 

In this manner a year passed over, and when Christmas 
was coming for the second time whispers reached the ear 
of Thrond the priest, and he made a plan with Erlend, 

79 



80 HACON THE KING 

kinsman of Sverrir, that Hacon should leave the country 
of the Croziermen and go north. Then they two took 
the child and Inga his mother and journeyed by night 
through strange places till on Christmas Eve they reached 
a place called Hammar, where they met some Birchlegs, 
who told them that news of their flight had spread abroad, 
and that Croziermen were spread over the mountains. 
Worse than all, Ivar the bishop was at Hammar, and he, 
as everyone knew, was a sworn enemy to the race of 
Sverrir. Thrond and Erlend looked at each other as the 
Birchlegs spoke. It was what they had dreaded, and 
little surprised they felt when next day arrived a messen- 
ger from Ivar the bishop claiming kinship with the boy 
— which was true — and inviting Inga and her son to 
spend the feast of Yule, for so Christmas was called, with 
him. But, by counsel of the Birchlegs, an answer was 
sent saying that the child and his mother needed rest 
after journeying, and would stay where they were till 
Yule was past, and after that they -would come to the 
bishop's house. When Ivar's messenger had ridden out 
of sight, the Birchlegs rose up swiftly and hid Hacon and 
his mother in a farm among the hills, while they bade 
all the Birchlegs that were scattered for many miles 
round to hold themselves ready. On Christmas night 
Inga wrapped the baby w^armly up in furs, and, giving 
him to Erlend to carry, they set out from the farm, 
and took a path that led eastwards through mountains 
and forests, and on each side of Hacon walked Thor- 
stein the fighter and Skerwald the Shrimp, swiftest of 
all men on snow shoes, so that, should the Croziermen 
try to capture him, he might be borne away out of their 
reach. 

For many nights and days they tramped forwards, 
lying in caves or scooping themselves huts in the snow. 
Not a house was to be seen anywhere; and, though Inga 
had a brave heart, she sometimes wondered if the guides 
knew the way any better than she did. At length they 



HACON THE KING 81 

came to a barn, and here they kindled some wood by 
means of a fire-stick, but that only melted the snow on 
the broken roof till it was more uncomfortable inside 
than out. Their food had all been eaten that morning, 
and they had nothing to give little Hacon except the 
water of the snow. But he did not seem to mind, and 
only laughed when the drops fell on his nose. He was 
ever the merriest baby. A day after leaving the barn 
they struggled through snow so hard that it had to be 
broken with the spears of the Birchlegs, and before them 
lay a farm, where they received a hearty welcome, and 
were given good food to eat and soft beds to He on. 
Then the farmer set them on horses and gave them 
guides, and they turned northwards towards Drontheim. 
On the journey many Birchlegs joined them, and some 
of them brought news that the Croziermen had started in 
pursuit, but the snowdrifts through which Inga and 
Hacon had won their way proved too deep for them, and 
they went back to Erling Stone-wall, whom they had 
chosen king. 

Now Ingi, kinsman of Httle Hacon, lay at Drontheim 
with a large army, when one day a man entered his hall 
and told him that his brother, who had been hunting bears 
in the mountains, had seen from afar a body of men march- 
ing towards the city, and the people of the hill country 
whispered that a king's son was with them. 'What king's 
son?' the young man had asked, but that no one could 
tell him. There were also tales of another force from 
further east; but all was uncertain, so Ingi the king waited 
for the return of his messengers, and spread tents for 
himself and his bodyguard, till the men came back. 

'Well, what tidings?' said Ingi, as they entered his 
tent. 

'Here are two guides who have travelled far,' answered 
the messengers pointing to the Birchlegs, 'they will tell 
you their story'; and so they did from the beginning, and 
7 



82 HACON THE KING 

that the child in their company was Hacon, grandson of 
Sverrir the king. Then Ingi gave thanks that the boy 
had come safe through such perils of winter and wild 
beasts, and bade the men sit down to eat and drink, and 
said that he himself would tarry where he was till Hacon 
his kinsman was brought to him. And when the boy hove 
in sight Ingi strode out to meet him, and took him in his 
arms and kissed him, bidding him and his mother wel- 
come, and he was good to them both all the days of his 
life. Perhaps, when he grew older, Hacon may have 
heard the tale of another httle boy across the seas named 
Arthur, hke himself the heir to a kingdom, who, only a 
year before the birth of Hacon, had been done to death 
by John, his uncle, who coveted his crown. But no such 
thought ever entered the mind of Ingi. 

It was strange for Hacon to wake up to find himself 
lying on soft cushions, and broad beams over his head 
instead of the stars, or the brilKant, rushing, Northern 
Lights. Sometimes he would raise himself on his elbow 
and Hsten with bent head, dreaming that he heard the 
soft pad of a wolf's foot, or that if he looked he would 
see a pair of bright eyes staring at him from behind a 
bush, as he had often done in the mountain forests. Then 
he remembered that wolves did not come into palaces, 
and, curHng himself up comfortably, went to sleep again. 
All that winter and the next he stayed in Drontheim, and 
every day the Birchlegs visited him and told him stories 
of his father and grandfather, which the boy Hked to hear, 
but sometimes found beyond his understanding. But in 
the second spring after his coming, earl Hacon, brother 
of Ingi, took him to his castle at Bergen, and he loved 
him greatly, and would say to his men that little Hacon 
was in truth king of Norway. That summer, while earl 
Hacon was away, the Croziermen under their new king 
PhiHp besieged Bergen, and the boy fell into their hands, 
and some thought of making him king instead of PhiHp. 
Most likely PhiUp knew of this, and it would have been 



HACON THE KING 83 

quite easy for him to kill Hacon, as King John across the 
seas would have done. Yet the Norsemen, though fierce 
in battle, were not apt to slay children, so he treated Hacon 
kindly, and in three days yielded him up to Thorir the 
archbishop. With him Hacon lived till his kinsman the 
earl came back from fighting; then he went again to his 
house, and remained with him always either on land or 
sea. 

Of the two, Hacon loved best being on the sea, and 
when he was four the earl built a splendid ship, larger 
than any which had sailed in those waters. Its prow was 
high out of the water and carved with a raven's head, 
and inside there were thirty-one benches for the rowers to 
sit on, who wielded the great long oars. Of course it was 
very important to find a good name for such a splendid 
vessel, and Hacon and the earl consulted daily about it, 
but at length they agreed that none was so fitting as Olaf's 
CHnker. So 'Olaf's Clinker' it was called, and in the 
autumn the two Hacons sailed in it to the Seljar Isles, and 
lay there all through the great frost. Food they had in 
plenty, but it was very hard to use it; their drink was a 
solid lump of ice, and their butter was frozen so tight that 
many a knife broke its blade in two before it could cut 
off a morsel for Httle Hacon to eat, for the men gave him 
of the best always. One day the earl bade the cook bake 
the child a soft, thick cake of flour, and it was brought to 
him where he stood Hstening to the tales of the king's 
guard. They also were eating their food, and he watched 
them biting morsels of the hard bread and after of the 
frozen butter. 

'Give me some butter,' he said with a laugh, and the 
soldier chopped off a piece and handed it to him. 'Now 
let us fettle the butter, Birchlegs,' laughed he, and took 
the butter and folded it up in the hot cake so that the butter 
melted. 

'So Httle and so wise,' they murmured to each other, 
and Hacon 's saying was told throughout the army, and 



84 



HACON THE KING 



became a proverb in the land. All men loved him, for 
he always had merry words on his tongue and took nothing 
amiss. But for his years he was small, and often the 
Birchlegs would take him by his head and heels and pull 
him out, 'to make him grow taller,' they said, but he never 
grew above middle stature. 




When Hacon was seven years old the earl told him it 
was time he learned something out of books, as his father 
had done. Hacon was willing, and spent some time every 
day with the priest who was to teach him. For many 
months the boy worked at his lessons, or at least so the 
earl thought, as he no longer trotted at his heels like the 
big blue boarhound. One evening, when the earl had 



HACON THE KING 85 

come in weary from a day's hunting, and had stretched 
himself in front of the huge hall fire, waiting for the skald 
or poet to come and sing to him the mighty deeds of his 
fathers the Vikings, Hacon ran in. 

'Come hither, boy,' said the earl, 'and tell me what you 
are learning.' 

'Chanting, lord earl,' answered Hacon. 

'That was not the sort of learning I wished you to know,' 
replied the earl, 'and you shall not learn it any more, but 
how to read and write, for it is not a priest, nor even a 
bishop, that I mean you to be.' 

It seems strange that though both Ingi the king and 
Hacon the earl loved the boy truly, and that, as has been 
told, the earl often said in the hearing of all men that if 
everyone had his rights the grandson of Sverrir, and not 
Ingi, would rule over them, yet in this very year Hacon 
the earl and Ingi the king agreed together that whichever 
of them lived longest should reign over the whole of Nor- 
way, and that Hacon the child should be set aside. A 
Thing was called, where the archbishops, and bishops, 
and other men were present, and they declared that com- 
pact to be good. For, said they, did not Solomon speak 
truly when he wrote, 'Woe to the land whose king is a 
child,' and how should Hacon, Sverrir's grandson deUver 
us from the hands of the Croziermen and the Danes and 
keep order in the land?' 

Now it happened that on the very day on which this 
matter was determined by the Thing, little Hacon had 
been sent by request of his mother to visit Astrida, his 
kinswoman, and an old Birchleg went with him. Though 
it was evening when he returned, the sun was quite high 
in the heavens, it being summer, and Hacon sought at 
once his old friend Helgi the keen, saying that there was 
yet time to play one of the games they both loved. But 
at the sight of him Helgi's face grew dark, and he roughly 
bade him begone. 

'What have I done to anger thee, my Helgi?' asked 



86 HACON THE KING 

Hacon wonderingly; but Helgi would have none of him. 
'I know of nought that can have vexed thee,' repeated 
Hacon; and Helgi answered: 

'Why do I bid thee begone? Because to-day thy 
kingdom was taken from thee and given to another 
man.' 

'Who did this deed, and where?' said Hacon. 

'It was done at the Thing,' returned Helgi, 'and those 
who did it were thy kinsmen, Ingi and Hacon.' 

'Ingi and Hacon,' repeated the boy and was silent for 
a moment. Then his face brightened and he added, 
'Well, be not wroth with me, Helgi. None can tell if the 
deed will stand, for no spokesmen were there to plead my 
cause.' 

'And who are your spokesmen?' inquired Helgi. 

'God and Saint Olaf,' answered Hacon, 'and to them I 
leave it.' 

'Good luck be with thee, king's son,' said Helgi, taking 
him up and kissing him. 

So Hacon the child hved on in the house of the earl 
his kinsman, who loved him greatly, and spurned in anger 
the evil counsel of one Hidi, who offered secretly to do him 
to death. 

'God forbid,' cried the earl, 'that I should in this man- 
ner buy the kingdom for my son,' and he bade Hidi begone 
from his presence and keep his treachery to himself. And 
the better to preserve the boy from harm he had him 
always in his company, even when he fell sick of the illness 
that was to end in his death. Hacon, who by now was 
ten years old, mourned him sorely; but in the spring Ingi 
the king came south to Bergen, and carried the boy north- 
wards to Drontheim, where he sent him to school with 
his son Guttorm, two years younger than himself. The 
boys were good friends, and treated alike in all things. 
Guttorm, being most easily moved to wrath, and often 
finding himself in trouble, came to Hacon to make him a 
way out, which Hacon did, many times with a jest or a 



HACON THE KING 87 

laugh, for he was gentle and slow to anger, and all men 
loved him. 

In this year Ingi the king fell sick also, and Skuli, his 
brotherj urged upon him to place the crown on the head 
of his son Guttorm. Some men agreed with Skuh, and 
the Birchlegs feared for Hacon, and desired to bear him 
away with them and gather an army and fight and see 
who should be king; but Hacon would not hsten to the 
old Birchlegs, and said it was 'unwise to set those at 
one another who ought to fight under the same shield, 
and that he would wait, and for the present let things 
be.' After all Ingi the king got well, and for two more 
winters he ruled as before. But when Hacon was thir- 
teen and Guttorm eleven a sore weakness fell upon Ingi, 
and he knew that he would go out no more to battle. 
Grievous was it for a man who had spent his hfe in faring 
to and fro to be tied down to his bed; but he uttered no 
words of wailing, and lay listening to the merry jests of 
Hacon and his steward Nicholas till he laughed himself, 
and his illness felt Hghter. Skuli, the king's brother, like- 
wise watched by him, and his friends were gathered there 
also, and they pressed Ingi sore to give the kingdom into 
Skuli the earl's hands. And Ingi had no strength to say 
them nay, and he let them have their will, and soon he 
died, leaving the rule to Skuli. But the men of Norway 
did not all agree as to this matter. Some wished that 
Guttorm, Ingi's son, should be king, others declared that 
Hacon had the best right; while the rest said that the 
throne of Norway was no place for a boy, and they 
would have a man such as Skuli to reign over them. 
For SkuH, though filled with ambition and a man 
whose word and promises were swiftly broken, was tall 
and handsome, generous with his gold, and pleasant of 
speech. Therefore he had a large following and a power- 
ful one; but to Hacon he was ever a bad friend, seeking 
his throne, and met his death hereafter in strife against 
him. 



88 HACON THE KING 

It happened that Guttorm the archbishop was away in 
the far north, and SkuK would fain have waited till his 
return, for many canons and learned clerks desired him 
for their lord, and the earl hoped that the archbishop 
might gain over others also. So he went to work secretly, 
seeking by sundry devices to put off the choice of a king, 
and so cunning he was that he seemed to have succeeded. 
But one day when he was asking counsel of a friend the 
blast of trumpets was heard. 

'What means that?' cried the earl, starting up from his 
seat, and, striding out of his chamber, he went quickly 
down the narrow stairs and entered the great hall, which 
was crowded with men. 

'Lord earl,' said one of the bodyguard, an old man with 
scars about his face, 'Lord earl, we have waited long 
enough for the archbishop, and we are minded to wait 
no longer. A meeting shall be held this morning in this 
very place, and Hacon, Sverrir's grandson, shall sit by 
your side on the high seat, and king shall he be called 
till the great Thing be got together. If you say nay to 
this, then will the rowers make ready the ships, and Hacon 
shall sail with us southwards to the land of Bergen, and 
there another Thing shall be summoned, and we and the 
bodyguard that dwells there will declare him king. Now 
choose.' 

Then SkuH saw that there were many against him, and 
he let a high seat be built close to the church of St. Nicho- 
las, and Onund, standard-bearer of the Birchlegs, stood up 
and said that the Croziermen were gathered in the bay 
which hes south of Christiania and were ruled by a king. 
But when tidings reached them that the men of Norway 
were but a headless host the Croziermen would agree 
with the bishops and strife would be in the land. A great 
shout arose when Onund had finished speaking, and twelve 
men of the king's guard were sent to fetch Hacon, who 
was at the school over against Christ Church. The boy 
was sitting on a bench, his eyes bent on a priest who was 



HACON THE KING 89 

reading out from a Latin roll the tale of the burning of 
Dido, and when he had done it was his custom to make 
each boy in turn tell him what he had heard. Suddenly, 
with a clatter, the door flew open and the twelve messengers 
entered. 

'God greet you, king's son,' spake the oldest of them. 
'The Birchlegs and the yeomen who meet in the courtyard 
of the palace have sent us to fetch you.' 

Hacon looked first at the priest and then at the 
Birchleg, and held out his hand, and went with them 
down to the church of St. Nicholas. Then Skuli the 
earl said that many were present who did not hold that 
the boy was Sverrir's grandson, and that until he had 
proved his right to sit on the high seat he must be content 
with a low one. 

'Ingi and Hacon the earl knew well he was the king's 
son,' cried a voice from out the crowed; but SkuH pretended 
not to hear, and declared that by the counsel of his friends, 
Inga, Hacon 's mother, must be tried by the ordeal of hot 
iron. 

In those days it was a common thing that anyone 
accused of a great crime should prove his innocence in 
three ways, and he might choose which of them pleased 
him best. Either he might walk over red-hot plough- 
shares, or hold in his hand a piece of red-hot iron, and 
if his hands or feet were marked with no scar he was held 
to be accused falsely. Or he could, if so he willed, be 
tried by the ordeal of water and, having his hands and. 
feet bound, be cast into a river. If, after being in the 
water a certain time or floating a certain distance, he 
remained alive and unhurt, he also was let go free. In 
Norway the ordeal of iron alone was used, and gladly 
did the king's mother offer to submit to it. Straight 
from the meeting she went to the church of St. Peter, 
and fasted three days and three nights and spoke to no 
one. On the third day she came forth, her face shining, 
but the iron bar, which should have been lying in a chest 



90 HACON THE KING 

in the church, was nowhere to be found. For in truth 
the canons and priests, who were SkuH's men, had mis- 
doubted their cause, and had hidden it away, lest the 
ordeal should prove their own undoing. But the captain 
of the Birchlegs understood well what had befallen, and 
sent messengers over the land to summon a Thing, to be 
held in a month's time. And daily they set Hacon in the 
high seat beside the earl, and SkuH dared not gainsay 
them. 

So the Thing was held in the meadow, and trumpets 
were blown, but the canons forbade the holy shrine to 
be brought out from the church of St. Olaf, as was the 
custom at the choosing of a king. In this they acted 
unwisely, for the hearts of many of their own men grew 
hot at this base device, and turned against them, and 
Hacon was proclaimed king, and oaths were sworn to 
him. After that Hacon the king and Skuli the earl sailed 
together to Bergen, in a ship of twenty benches. At the 
mouth of the fiord a messenger brought him word that 
the canons and priests of Bergen, moved by their fellows 
at Drontheim, did not mean to pay him kingly honours. 
To this Hacon made answer that, as their king, he ex- 
pected the homage they had paid his fathers, or they would 
have to bear the penalty, and his words bore fruit, for 
he rowed up the fiord with all the church bells ringing 
and the people shouting. Then a Thing was held, and 
he was chosen king by the people of Bergen also. But, 
better than ruling over assemblies, Hacon loved to watch 
the strange games of boys and men. King though he 
was, many troubled years were in store for Hacon. Skuli 
was not minded to sit down quietly as Hacon 's hegeman, 
and at once began to lay plots with the Croziermen and 
with John Earl of Orkney. He had taken for himself 
all the money which Sverrir, Hacon his son, and Ingi 
had stored up, and all the gold that Hacon possessed 
was a brooch and a ring. Thus it became plain even to 



HACON THE KING 91 

the Birchlegs that Hacon could not fight both the earl 
and the Croziermen, and so it was agreed that SkuH should 
be lord over a third part of Norway and that peace should 
be made. 

Hardly was this done when there arose in the east a 
band of poor men, under the lead of Benedict the priest, 
whom folk called Benny. From their torn garments they 
were known as the Ragged Regiment, and at first they 
did nothing but steal from farmyards and rob houses. 
But afterwards, when rich and strong men who would 
not obey the laws joined them, they grew bolder and at- 
tacked Tunsberg, the chief city near the Bay, and though 
they were driven back and many were killed, yet for long 
they harried the lands of Hacon, and with another band 
of rebels, called the Ribbalds, laid waste the country. 
Till they were conquered, which took Hacon ten years, 
httle rest had he, and always SkuH was there to trouble 
him. 

It was when Hacon was fourteen years old that the 
archbishop and earl SkuH sent messengers to Bergen to 
ask that Inga, his mother, might once more go through 
the ordeal of iron to satisfy all men of his right to the 
throne. In answer Hacon summoned the bishops and 
archbishops and SkuH, together with some of his Hegemen, 
to assemble in the vestry of the church, and spoke to them 
in this wise: 

'It would seem hard to many a king to undergo the 
ordeal when his rule was estabHshed. Before, when my 
mother offered herself to suffer it, I had not been chosen 
king, and you all know how it happened that when she 
came forth the iron was hidden. You know, too, that 
when we first entered Norway she declared herself ready 
to undergo the ordeal, but Ingi the king and Hacon the 
earl answered that none misdoubted, neither was there 
any need for it. Yet now I will do as you will for three 
causes. First, that no man may say I have claimed what 
is not mine by right; second, that I would that my subjects 



iM HACON THE KING 

should learn that in all things I strive to content them; 
and third, that the Judge into whose hands I put myself 
will fail none whose cause is true. And therefore I go 
gladly to this judgment. 

Then Inga went into the church to fast for three days 
and three nights, and some men fasted with her, and, 
twelve watched on the outside as before. But on the 
Wednesday before the trial was to take place Sigar, one 
of Skull's men, skilled in learning, came secretly to good 
man Dagfinn, Hacon's liegeman, and said thus: 'I know 
your heart is vexed and sore because of this ordeal, but 
I can promise to make all things right so that the king's 
mother shall not suffer.' 

'How mean you?' asked Dagfinn who was not minded 
to talk with the man, not liking his face. 

'It is in this w^ise,' answered Sigar with a cunning look; 
* I have only to rub this herb over the hand of Inga and 
the iron will not harm her, however hot it be.' 

'I thank you,' said Dagfinn; 'but tell me what name 
has this herb, and where I may find it.' 

'It grows on every house in Bergen,' replied Sigar, 
who knew well full that there was no virtue in the herb 
at all, but thought that Dagfinn was with him in the 
matter, and that together they might proclaim that Inga 
had sought the aid of leechcraft, and so discredit her in 
the eyes of all men. But Dagfinn made as though he 
would spring on him, and bade him begone while he kept 
his hands off him. After that Dagfinn told the tale 
to Inga, and warned her lest she should fall into any 
snares. 

Next morning Hacon the king, and Skuli, and the arch- 
bishop, and John Earl of Orkney, and many other notable 
men, went into the church where the priest said the ofl&ce. 
Then the piece of holy iron was taken from the great chest 
and heated in a brazier under the eyes of all, and when 
it glowed white, so that none could look on it, the priest 
drev/ it forth with long pincers and placed it in Inga's 



HACON THE KING 95 

hand. As she took it, Hacon shivered, as if the pain had 
been his. He alone turned his head away; but the rest 
never lifted their gaze from the face of Inga, which was 
calm and peaceful as ever. 

'It is enough,' said the priest at last, and Hacon sprang 
forward as if to go to his mother, when the priest stopped 
him. 'All is not yet finished; back to your place,' and, 
standing in front of Inga so that no man could behold 
her hand, he wound a white cloth many times round it. 
'Now you may come,' said the priest, and Hacon went 
with his mother to her house. 

For many days they waited, and then the priest sent 
word to Hacon the king, and Skuli the earl, and the arch- 
bishop and the bishops and the nobles, that the following 
evening they should meet in Christ Church, and he would 
unbind the hand of Inga. Not one of them was missing, 
and in the presence and sight of all the priest unwound 
the linen and stretched out the hand of Inga, and behold! 
the skin of that hand was whiter and fairer to see than the 
skin of the other. And the archbishop proclaimed a Thing 
to be held the next Sunday in the space in front of the 
church, and there he gave out how that the king's mother 
had won through the ordeal, and that any who from that 
day misdoubted Hacon's right to the crown should be 
laid under the ban of the Church. Also, he said that 
Hacon the king and Skuli the earl had made a new compact 
of friendship. 

But compacts did not count for much with Skuh, not 
even when, a year later, Hacon, then fifteen, was betrothed 
to his daughter Margaret. In this matter the king fol- 
lowed the counsel of his friends, though he himself knew 
Skuli too well to expect that the earl would suffer a 
marriage or anything else to bind him. 'It will all come 
to the same thing, I fear,' he said to his mother, as he 
set out at Michaelmas for the ceremony at Drontheim. 
For some reason we do not know the marriage was de- 
layed for six years, and it was not until 1225, when Hacon 



96 HACON THE KING 

was twenty-one, that it actually took place. Then, after 
Easter, Hacon took ship at Tunsberg on the Bay, and 
sailed for five days till he reached Bergen. As soon as 
he arrived the preparations for the wedding began, and 
on Trinity Sunday, when the sun remains in the sky all 
night long in the far north, Hacon and Margaret were 
married in Christ Church. Afterwards great feasts were 
held for nearly a week in the palace. Hacon sat at the 
high table at the head of the men in the Yule Hall, and 
Margaret gathered round her the women in the Summer 
Hall, and the monks and abbots held a banquet in another 
place. 

All the days that Hacon lived Margaret was a good 
wife to him, and wept sore for the trouble that Skuli, her 
father, brought on the land. For Hacon the king had 
been right in his prophecy, and for fifteen years Skuli 
never ceased from scheming against him, and murdering 
those that stood in his way, till even his own men grew 
ashamed and tired of him. Nothing was there which he 
held sacred, and this brought him more dishonour than all 
his other crimes. Once Hacon sent Ivar and Gunnar to 
him with letters. Warm was their welcome from Skuli, 
and splendid were the presents which he gave them when 
they left. But secretly he bade men ride after them and 
slay them where they could find them. Fast rode Skuli's 
men, but Ivar and Gunnar rode faster, for Hacon had 
need of them. At length they rested for the night in 
a farm belonging to the king, and Skuli's men, with 
Gaut Wolfskin and Sigurd Saltseed at their head, came 
unawares to the house also. As they entered they be- 
held Gunnar leaning against the lattice of the window, 
and they threw open the door and slew him where he 
stood, but not before many of their band lay dead upon 
the ground. When Ivar saw that his help could be of 
no avail he sprung into the loft close by, and, squeezing 
himself through a narrow opening, leaped to the ground 
and sought to take refuge in the church, but it was 



HACON THE KING 97 

locked. Then he seized a ladder which was standing by 
and ran up it to the roof, throwing the ladder down when 
he reached the top. In the dark no man troubled him; 
but it was November, and the wind was keen, and no 
clothes had he upon him save a shirt and his breeches. 
When the sun rose he found that Skuli's men were gathered 
below, watching that he should not escape; but, indeed, 
his hands were so frozen with cold that he could have 
taken hold of nothing. He prayed them to grant him his 
Hfe; but they laughed him to scorn, and Sigurd Saltseed 
seized the ladder and set it up against the church, and 
climbed upon it, and thrust Ivar through with a spear so 
that he fell dead to the ground. 

Now these things displeased the people of Norway, and 
one by one his liegemen departed from Skuli and took 
service with Hacon, till at length so few followers had the 
earl that he was forced to fly. The Birchlegs sought him 
everywhere, and one day news was brought to them that 
he was lying hidden in a monastery, and some of his men 
also. So the Birchlegs came up to the monastery to attack 
it, but the archbishop went forth to meet them and begged 
that SkuK might be let pass in peace to see the king. Some 
Hstened to the archbishop, but others, whose hearts were 
harder, crept away and set fire to the monastery, and 
the fire spread. Then Skuli saw that the time for fighting 
was past, and, lifting up his shield, he stood in the doorway 
crying, 'Strike me not in the face, for not so is it done 
to princes'; therefore they thrust him through in the body, 
and he died. 

But all this happened fifteen years after the marriage 
of Hacon, and it is no longer the concern of this tale, 
which treats only of his youth. At sixty years old he 
died, having worn the crown of Norway forty-seven years. 
In spite of his enemies at home, he did many things for 
his people, and ruled them well. The poor were merci- 
fully dealt with, and his soldiers were forbidden to steal 
8 



98 HACON THE KING 

from either friends or foes. Churches and hospitals and 
great halls he built in plenty, rivers he widened and num- 
bers of ships he had, swift sailing and water-tight, for 
he was overlord of lands far away over the sea. Iceland 
and Greenland paid their dues to him. The Isle of Man, 
which owned a king, did him homage, and so did the 
south isles of Scotland — the ' Sudar ' Isles as they were 
called, Jura, and Islay, and Bute, and the rest — and 
their bishop was known as the Bishop of Sodor and Man, 
as he is to this day. Besides this, the friendship of 
Hacon was sought by many foreign princes: by the Em- 
peror Frederick the Second, 'the Wonder of the World'; 
by the Grand Prince of Russia; by the Pope Innocent IV., 
who sent a legate to crown him king. Hacon also sent 
his daughter to Spain with a great dowry, to marry which- 
ever of the king's four sons pleased her best. Still, in 
spite of his fame, his voyages were few, and it seems 
strange that he should have been seized with mortal 
illness at the bishop's house in Kirk wall. At first 
they read him Latin books, but his head grew tired, and 
he bade them take the scrolls away and tell him instead 
the tales of the Norse kings his forefathers. And so he 
died, and when the ice was melted and the sea set free, 
his body was carried to Bergen and buried in Christ 
Church, where he had been married and where he had 
been crowned. 

This is the tale of Hacon the King. 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

When Marie Louise d'Orleans, daughter of Madame, and 
niece of Louis XIV., was born, on March 27, 1662, both 
her grandmothers as well as her mother were terribly 
disappointed that she was not a boy. 'Throw her into 
the river,' exclaimed Madame, in fun, of course; but the 
queen-mother of England, the widow of Charles I., whose 
sorrows had crushed all jokes out of her, answered gravely 
that after all, perhaps, things were not quite so bad as 
they seemed, for by-and-by she might marry her cousin 
the dauphin who was only a few months older. 

Quite unconscious of her cold welcome, the baby grew 
and thrived, and was so pretty and had such charming 
little ways, that they soon forgave her for being only a 
girl, especially as when she was two years old she had 
a little brother. The Due de Valois, as he was called, 
was a beautiful child, strong and healthy, whereas the 
dauphin was always ill, and Louis XIV. had no other 
sons to inherit his crown. So great rejoicings were held 
at the Due de Valois' birth in the chateau of Fontaine- 
bleau; bonfires were lighted and banquets were given, 
and, more than that, an allowance of money was settled 
on him by the king. His other uncle, Charles II., was 
his godfather, and the baby was given his name, with 
that of his father Philippe. The children lived mostly at 
St. Cloud, where there were splendid gardens to run about 
in and merry little streams to play with. When their 
mother drove to Paris or St. Germain to attend great 
balls or fetes at Court, Madame de St. Chaumont took 

99 



100 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

care of them, and saw that they did not fall into any mis- 
chief. For some time they never had an ache or a pain, 
but when the Due de Valois was about two years old he 
was very ill, from the difficulty of cutting his teeth. Ma- 
dame de St. Chaumont stayed with him and nursed him 
night and day till his mother could reach him; however, 
he soon improved, and Madame was able to go back to 
St. Germain, knowing that his governess would take as 
much care of him as she could herself. After he grew 
better, the great coach and six horses were got ready, 
and he was driven to the Palais Royal in Paris, and placed 
in the charge of the fashionable doctor of the day, Maitre 
Gui Patin. But unhappily, in spite of all their precau- 
tions, the boy managed to catch cold; convulsions fol- 
lowed, and Monsieur insisted on preparations being made 
for the christening, instead of only having, as was 
usual, a hasty ceremony, while the public rite was 
commonly put off till the royal child had passed its 
twelfth birthday. It was on December 7, 1667, that 
little Phihppe Charles was baptized, and the following 
day he had a fresh attack, and died of exhaustion, to the 
despair of his mother, who adored him. All the honours 
customary to be paid to one so near the throne were be- 
stowed on the dead child. For three days he lay in state, 
and the princes of the blood, headed by the king himself, 
passed before him and sprinkled water on his bier. Then 
the people were let in, and many a woman's eyes grew 
wet at the sight of that beautiful baby. Three days later 
he was put to rest in the royal burying-place at St. Denis, 
near Paris. 

The next few years passed peacefully away. Marie. 
Louise was a clever little girl, and not only was fond of 
books, Hke her mother, but had sharp eyes, and noticed 
everything that went on round her. On wet days she 
danced in the rooms of St. Cloud or the Palais Royal, as 
Madame had danced twenty years ago at the Louvre; and 
when she was seven there was a small sister, Anne Marie, 



MI REIN A I MI REIN A! 101 

for her to play with and to nurse. 'She can move her 
fingers and toes, and squeaks without being squeezed. 
She is more amusing than any doll,' said Marie Louise. 

But the quiet of the child's life was soon to be dis- 
turbed, and Mademoiselle w^as to learn her first sorrow. 
One morning, at the end of 1669, ^ messenger in the 
royal livery arrived from the king, bearing a letter for 
Madame, who burst into sobs while reading it. Dis- 
missing the messenger with a wave of her hand — for 
she was unable to speak — she sank back on the sofa, 
and for some minutes wept bitterly. Then, gathering 
up her strength, she passed into the adjoining room, 
where Madame de St. Chaumont was sitting over her 
embroidery. 

'Read this, my friend,' said Madame, and walked to 
the window. The letter, which Madame de St. Chaumont 
read silently to the end, was from the king. It was very 
short, and merely informed Madame that his Majesty 
had reason to think that her children's governess had been 
concerned in an intrigue whereby the bishop of Valence 
had incurred his displeasure, and he begged, therefore, 
that she might be at once dismissed from her post. Grieved 
though she was at parting from a woman who for nearly 
eight years had shared both her cares and her troubles, 
Madame had no choice but to obey, and Madame de St. 
Chaumont knew it. So they parted, and during the winter 
and spring that followed Madame missed her friend daily 
more and more. Then, with the bright June weather, 
came Madame's sudden seizure and death, and Mon- 
sieur, poor foolish, womanish man, was left with two little 
girls to look after. 

How could he do it? Well, he began very character- 
istically by dressing up Mademoiselle, now eight years 
old, in a violet velvet mantle which trailed on the ground, 
and announcing that she would receive visits of condo- 
lence. Of course members of the Court and the great 
officials flocked in crowds, and when they had paid their 



102 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 



respects to Mademoiselle, they were, much to their sur- 
prise, shown into the nursery where little Anne Marie, 
Mademoiselle de Valois, at this time hardly past her first 




birthday, was awaiting them. The baby was too young 
to be hurt by her father's follies, and as long as she had 
good nurses to look after her could safely be left to their 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 103 

care; but with Marie Louise it was different, and, luckily 
for her, the kind queen, Marie Therese, had pity on her, 
and took her to Court to be brought up with the dauphin. 
Together they danced and played, and no doubt quarrelled, 
but in all their games, the lively, sharp-witted little girl 
took the lead of the slow and rather dull boy. In a year's 
time Monsieur married again, and his choice fell on his 
dead wife's cousin, Charlotte Ehzabeth, daughter of the 
Elector Palatine, only ten years older than Marie Louise 
herself. The new Madame, ugly, awkward, ill-dressed, 
plain-spoken, but kind-hearted and full of sense, was a 
great contrast to her predecessor, Henriette, but she was 
very good to the two little girls, and never made any dif- 
ference between them and her own children. We may be 
sure that Marie Louise, who was gentle and sweet-tem- 
pered, as well as pretty and clever, was quick to notice all 
her good qualities and to be grateful for her stepmother's 
care and affection, though at first it was a trial to leave 
the court and her friend the dauphin and go and live in 
the Palais Royal. But then, how amusing Madame was, 
and what stories she could tell of 'when I was a little girl,' 
which was not so long ago, either! 

'I longed to be a boy, and was always playing boys' 
games; but as I grew bigger I was not allowed so much 
liberty, and had to make up my mind to be a gir], and 
do stupid things at home, and dress up, which I hated. 
I was also oi)hged to drink tea or chocolate, which I thought 
very nasty. My only pleasure was hunting, and I was 
never so happy — I never am so happy now — as when 
I got up at dawn and rode away to hunt with my dogs 
yapping round me. How all your French ladies are so 
lazy I can't imagine; I can't bear to stay in bed when 
I am awake.' No doubt Madame made a very strange 
figure in the splendid Court of Louis XIV.; and she on 
her part looked down with scorn from the superiority of 
a stout riding habit and a man's wig on the beautiful, 
ladies with their elegant dresses and plumed hats! But 



104 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

the king himself was not more particular about forms 
and ceremonies than she was, and though her manners 
and free remarks often made him shudder, yet he had a 
real respect for her good sense, and was grateful to her 
for making the best of his silly brother. 

So the years shpped by, and one day Marie Louise was 
seventeen, graceful and charming like her mother, with 
'feet that danced of themselves,' as Madame de Sevigne 
said to her daughter. The dauphin was seventeen too, 
and in those days young men, especially princes, married 
early. Would the prophecy uttered over her cradle by 
her grandmother, Henrietta Maria, come true, and the 
beautiful, quick-witted girl be queen of France? The 
Parisians would have hked nothing better, and even the 
princes of the blood would have been content; she had 
been like a daughter to the queen, and was sure of a 
welcome from her; but the king — why did the king 
stand aloof and say nothing ? Marie Louise guessed what 
was being whispered, and waited and wondered too, till 
she grew pale and thin, and Madame watched her and 
said angrily to Monsieur: 'Did I not warn you not to let 
her go to Court so much, if you did not want to make 
her miserable? Now she will never be happy anywhere 
else.' 

At length the king's silence was (explained. Marie 
Louise would never be queen of France — a German 
princess must be the wife of the dauphin; but she should 
be queen of Spain, and her husband was to be Charles II., 
the brother of Marie Therese. True, the King of Spain 
was ill-educated and ugly, and so stupid that some 
doubted if he had all his wits. He was very delicate too, 
and at four years old could scarcely walk or talk, and 
never stood without leaning on somebody. But he was 
lord over vast possessions, though, perhaps, he had not 
much real power out of Spain, and there the country was 
in such poverty that there was but little money passing 
from hand to hand. His mother, Marie Anne of Austria, 



MI REIN A! Mr REIN A! 105 

had held the reins of government, but at length, aided 
by his half-brother, Don John, Charles suddenly banished 
her to Toledo, and announced that he meant to be king 
in fact as well as in name. His first step was to break 
off negotiations with the emperor, whose daughter the 
queen-mother had chosen for his wife. This was done 
under the influence of Don John, and it was he who first 
suggested that King Charles might look for a bride in 
France. The king was slow to take in new ideas, and as 
backward in parting with them. Don John let him alone, 
and did not hurry him, but he threw in his way a portrait 
of the princess, and contrived that he should overhear 
the conversation of some Spanish gentlemen who had 
lately returned from Paris, and were loud in praises of 
the lovely and fascinating Mademoiselle. Charles looked 
at the miniature oftener and often er; soon he refused to 
part with it at all, and by-and-by began even to talk to it. 
Then he told Don John he would never marry any woman 
but this. 

Soon an envoy was sent to the King of France to ask 
the hand of his niece, which, after the usual official 
delays, lasting fully nine months, was joyfully granted 
to him. Tales of Charles 11. , who was, after all, Marie 
Therese's brother, had not failed to cross the Pyrenees, 
and Mademoiselle's heart sank as she thought of what 
awaited her. Once she summoned up all her courage 
and threw herself at the king's feet, imploring him to let 
her stay in France, even though she were to remain un- 
married. 

'I am making you queen of Spain,' he answered; 'what 
more could I have done for my daughter ? ' 

'Ah, Sire! you could have done more for your niece,' 
she said, turning away, for she saw it was hopeless. 

Although the formal consent of Louis XIV. was not 
given till July 1679, King Charles had nominated the 
persons who were to form the household of the young 



106 MI REIN A! MI REIN A 1 

queen ever since January, He had Don John contin- 
ually with him, asking his advice about this and that, 
though he never even took the trouble to tell his mother 
of his marriage, and left her to learn it from common 
rumour. At length all was ready; the king was informed 
of the day that the princess would reach the frontier, and 
Don John was about to start for the Pyrenees, when 
he was seized by a severe attack of fever, and in ten 
days was dead. According to etiquette he lay in state 
for the people to visit, in the splendid dress which 
had been made for him to wear when he met the new 
queen. 

It was on a little island in the middle of the river 
Bidassoa that Marie Louise said good-bye to France. 
She had thought she could not feel more pain when she 
had bidden farewell to the friends of her childhood — to 
the king and queen, to her father and stepmother, to her 
young sister, now ten years old, whose daughter would 
one day be queen of Spain too; worse than all, to the 
dauphin himself. Yet as long as she remained on 
French soil she was not wholly parted from them, and 
now and then a wild hope rushed through her heart that 
something, she did not know what, would happen, and 
that she might see one or other of them again. But 
as she entered the pavilion on the island where her 
Spanish attendants awaited her she knew that the links 
that bound her to the old life were broken, and she must 
make the best of that which lay before. It was a very 
strange Spain over which she was to reign, and she may 
often have dreamed that she was hving in a fairy tale, 
and that some day her ugly king would throw off his 
enchanted mask and become the handsomest and most 
charming of princes. Spain itself really began in the old 
French town of Bayonne, where ladies paid visits with 
fat httle sucking pigs under their arms, instead of being 
followed by long-eared spaniels, as in France. The pigs 
had ribbons round their necks to match their mistresses' 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 107 

dresses, and at balls were placed, after their entrance, 
in a room by themselves, while their owners danced 
with a grace no other nation could equal the branle, 
the canaris, or the sarahande. At certain times the 
gentlemen threw their canes into the air, and caught 
them cleverly as they came down, and they leapt high, 
and cut capers, all to the sound of a fife and a tambourine 
— a wooden instrument like a ship's trumpet, which was 
struck by a stick. As to the clothes in which the young 
queen was dressed by her Camarera Mayor, or chief 
lady of the bedchamber, on her arrival at Vittoria, Marie 
Louise did not know whether to laugh or to cry when 
she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her hair was 
parted on one side, and hung down in five plaits, each 
tied with a, bow of ribbon and a string of jewels. In 
winter, twelve petticoats were always worn, and though 
the upper one was of lace or fine embroidered musHn, 
one at any rate of the other eleven was of thick velvet 
or satin, worked in gold, while, to support the weight, 
which was tremendous, a huge stiff hoop was fastened 
on underneath them all. The dress itself was made 
very long, so as to conceal the feet, shod in flat, black 
morocco slippers. The bodice, high in front and low 
behind, which gave a very odd effect, was made of rich 
cloth of gold, and glittered with diamonds. 'But I can 
never move in these clothes,' said the queen, turning 
to the Duchess of Terranova, who knew no French 
and waited till the Princess d'Harcourt interpreted for 
her. 

'In summer her Majesty the Queen of Spain will wear 
only seven petticoats,' replied the duchess, dropping a low 
curtesy; and Marie Louise gave a little laugh. 

Odd as her own dress seemed, that of the old Camarera 
Mayor and the mistress of the maids of honour was odder 
still. They were both widows, and wore loose, shapeless 
black garments, with every scrap of hair hidden away. 
When they went out of doors large hats concealed their 



108 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

faces, and in this guise they rode on mules after their 
mistress, who was mounted on a beautiful Andalusian 
mare. As she travelled to Burgos, near which the king 
was to meet her, Marie Louise noticed with surprise 
that all the carriages w^ere drawn by six mules, but 
they were so big and strong that they could gallop as 
fast as any horse. The reins were usually of silk or 
rope, and each pair was harnessed at a great distance 
from the next, the coachman riding on one of the first 
two. When she inquired why he did not sit on the 
box, as in France, and have postillions in front, she was 
told that since a coachman had overheard some state 
secrets discussed between Olivares and his master, Philip 
IV., no one had ever been allowed to come within earshot 
of his Majesty. 

On November 20, at a small village called Quintana- 
palla, near Burgos, she was met by the king. Her journey 
had not been a pleasant one, for the Duchess of Terranova 
appeared to think that her position as Camarera Mayor 
enabled her to treat the queen as she chose, and she be- 
haved not only with great severity, but with positive rude- 
ness. Besides this, a dispute arose between the Duke of 
Osuna and the Marquis of Astorga as to who should ride 
nearest the queen, and, to put an end to it, Marie Louise 
was obliged to quit her horse and enter a carriage, sur- 
rounded, as the custom w^as, by curtains of shiny green 
cloth, which were kept drawn. Right glad was she to 
think that she would soon be free of this tyranny, and be 
with someone who wanted her — and Charles did want 
her to the end of her life. 

It was at ten o'clock in the morning that the news was 
brought to her that the king had arrived. Dressed in 
her Spanish costume, in which she still felt awkward, she 
hurried to greet him, but before she reached the ante- 
chamber he was in the room. The queen tried to kneel 
in order to kiss his hand; but he saluted her in the 
Spanish manner by taking hold of her arms, looking 



MI REIN A I MI REIN A! 109 

admiringly at her, and murmuring ' My Queen ! my Queen ! 
mi reina! mi reina!' She answered in French, assuring 
him of her love and obedience; and he replied in Spanish, 
for neither knew a word of the other's language, which 
seems the more strange when w^e remember how long 
the marriage negotiations had lasted, and that the Queen 
of France, with whom Marie Louise had passed so much 
of her life, was herself a Spaniard. Under these cir- 
cumstances, conversation is apt to come to a standstill; 
but, luckily, the French ambassador, the Marquis de 
Villars, was present as well as a number of Spanish 
grandees, and he was able to interpret — or perhaps 
to invent — everything that was suitable to the occa- 
sion. It was decided that the marriage should take 
place at once in the queen's antechamber, and as the 
archbishop of Burgos was ill, the benediction should 
be given by the Patriarch of the Indies, w^ho was also 
grand almoner. As the king and queen knelt side by 
side a white ribbon was knotted round them, and a 
piece of white gauze fringed with silver was laid on 
the head of the queen and on the shoulders of the 
king. 

After seeing a bull fight and some races at Burgos, 
the king and queen entered their carriage, and, with the 
shiny green cloth curtains drawn back, they began their 
drive to Madrid. It must have felt terribly long to both 
of them, as neither could speak to the other; but then 
Charles was accustomed to be silent, and Marie Louise 
was not. How thankful she must have been when the 
evening came, and she could exchange a few words with 
her nurse or her French maids ! But she could not chatter 
as she would have liked to do, or the Camarera Mayor 
would drop the low curtesy which Marie Louise was fast 
growing to hate, and say, 'Her Majesty the Queen of 
Spain is not aware that it is past nine o'clock, and time 
she was in bed.' Marie Louise was not clever at lan- 
guages, and had as yet picked up no Spanish; but she 



110 MI REIN A! MI REIN A I 

knew quite well that whenever her lady-in-waiting began 
'Her majesty the Queen of Spain,' she must stop whatever 
she was doing at the moment and make ready to do 
something else. Her maids of honour happily soon be- 
came fond of their new mistress, and did all they could 
to make her like her adopted country, and some of them 
who knew a httle French would try and explain any cus- 
tom that puzzled her. The rest looked their sympathy 
when the old duchess had done something specially rude 
or disagreeable, as when, for instance, she would put 
her finger into her mouth and attempt to dab down the 
queen's curly hair into the smooth locks admired by the 
Spaniards ! 

It was from the maids of honour that Marie Louise 
learned to know many things about Spanish life, for 
she was naturally curious about what went on around 
her, and had little to distract her thoughts. From them 
she heard that no great noblemen would ever think of 
dismissing his servants, but, on the contrary, when any 
members of his family died he added all their retainers 
to his own. As to actual wages, the servants were paid 
very little; why, even the gentlemen who formed part 
of the household only received fifteen crowns a month, 
and out of that they were expected to feed themselves, 
and to dress in black velvet in winter and in silk in 
summer. But, as her Majesty would soon notice, 
they lived mostly on vegetables and fruit, which were 
cheap, and they took their meals at the public eating- 
houses at the corners of the streets. Her Majesty was 
surprised to see all the carriages drawn by mules? But 
in Madrid horses were coming into fashion, which were 
much better. The late king had been frequently painted 
on his horse by one Velasquez, and it had a beautiful tail, 
which nearly swept the ground, and a long mane deco- 
rated with ribbons. Then, if the dreaded Camarera Mayor 
did not happen to be present, they would begin to talk about 
the fashions. 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! IH 

Yes, Spanish ladies had quantities of splendid jewels, 
but they were not cut and set like those the queen wore. 
Many of the devout ones had belts made entirely of relics, 
and if their husbands were away it was customary for 
every wife to dress herself during his absence in grey or 
white. Indeed, as a rule it was only young girls or brides 
who were permitted by etiquette to put on coloured skirts; 
the elder ladies were generally in black silk. 'Rouge their 
shoulders? Why, of course! Did they not do so in 
France?' But at this the queen burst into such fits of 
laughter that the old duchess came hurrying in and sternly 
ordered them all to be silent. 

The palace of Madrid was not yet ready, so the king 
and queen had to go to Buen-Retiro, a charming house, 
with a beautiful park, on the outskirts of the city, just 
above the river Manzanares. The garden was laid out in 
terraces, and ornamented with female statues, all of them 
with rouge on their cheeks and shoulders like the ladies. 
Marie Louise was surprised to see only two or three guards 
standing in front of the palace, and exclaimed that in 
Paris they would have half a regiment. 

'Ah! Madame,' replied the French ambassador, the 
Marquis de Villars, 'that was a remark made lately by 
Madame la Comtesse d'Aulnoy to a Spanish gentleman, 
and she received for answer, "Are we not all. the king's 
guards?"' 

The first days at Buen-Retiro passed pleasantly enough. 
The young king gave himself a holiday from his state 
duties, and was pleased with the interest the queen showed 
in his country. He took all his meals in her company, 
and they would even help — or hinder — the maids of 
honour in laying the table for dinner. In the evenings 
they sometimes went to the theatre, but this was not much 
amusement for the queen, as the plays were very long 
and she could not understand them. When the king was 
not with her — and before long he was forced to spend 



112 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

several hours a day with his ministers — the Duchess of 
Terranova never left her alone. If she unfastened the 
lattice in order to see what was happening in the park 
or gardens, the Camarera Mayor would rise from her 
seat and drop a low curtesy, and say: 'Her Majesty the 
Queen of Spain never looks out of the window'; or if she 
tried to teach the tiny httle pages or maids of honour, 
six or seven years old, the games she had played with her 
own httle sister, she was stopped at once by hearing that 
'Her Majesty the Queen of Spain never condescends to 
notice children!' If she was eating her supper beyond 
the hour which custom had fixed for her to go to bed, at 
the command of the lady in waiting her ladies would begin 
to undress her at table, and she would find herself lying 
on her fourteen mattresses before she reaHsed that she 
had moved from her seat. In fact, the only human beings 
with whom she had perect freedom were the dwarfs, who 
were allowed to do and say what they liked. There were 
quantities of them at Court, and one of them, called Lui- 
sillo, or 'httle Luis,' was a special favourite of the king's 
He was a tiny creature, who had been brought from Flan- 
ders, and he might have been Oberon, king of the Fairies, 
he was so handsome and well made and so full of wisdom. 
He rode a pony which was an exact copy of his master's 
horse, and was generally to be seen with him in pubHc 
and in processions. 

It seems strange that, considering how greatly Marie 
Louise feared and disliked her Camarera Mayor, she 
should have listened to her abuse of the king's mother, 
and allowed it to influence her conduct. The queen- 
dowager had quite forgotten her disappointment at her 
son's choice of a wife, and had given Marie Louise a hearty 
welcome, even trying to prevail on the king to alter some 
of the strictest rules, and allow Marie Louise a little more 
amusement and freedom. She did her best, too, to win 
her daughter-in-law's confidence, and in spite of the dis- 
trust implanted in her by the old duchess, the queen could 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 113 

not help enjoying her company, and the story of her ex- 
periences when she herself, a bride younger than Marie 
Louise, arrived in Spain from Vienna. One of the places 
at which she stopped was a town famous for its under- 
garments, and a quantity of beautiful petticoats, stockings, 
and other things were sent up to the house where she 
lodged as a wedding present. When they were unpacked, 
the major-domo indignantly caught up the parcel of 
stockings and flung them back at the astonished citizens. 
'Know, then, that the Queen of Spain has no legs!' he 
cried, meaning that so sacred a personage would never 
need to touch the ground with her feet; but the arch- 
duchess understood the words literally, and shed many 
secret tears in her room over a letter to her brother the 
emperor, saying that if she had known they were going 
to cut off her feet she would never, never have come to 
this country! 

December was now nearly at an end, and the young 
queen's state entry into Madrid was fixed for January 
13. Notwithstanding the poverty that was so severely 
felt, the city was splendidly decorated, and along the 
street of the goldsmiths great silver angels were placed, 
and golden shields, blazing with jewels. After the 
trumpeters, the city officers, the knights of the military 
orders, the grandees of Spain, and many more, came the 
royal procession, headed by the young queen on a grey 
Andalusian horse, dressed in a habit that ghttered with 
gold, wearing round her neck a huge pearl called La 
Peregrina, or the pilgrim, and followed by her attendants. 
Marie Louise loved riding, and was thoroughly happy on 
her prancing steed, and felt secretly amused when she 
thought of the discomfort of the two noble old widows 
who rode behind her in their hideous black clothes, 
trying, on the one hand, to keep near the queen, and 
on the other to prevent their mules from going faster 
than they liked — which was very slowly indeed. The 
naughty young maids of honour, all splendidly mounted, 
9 



114 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

looked at each other and smiled at the evident terror of 
the old ladies, for whom they had no love, and as they 
passed along they talked rapidly to each other on the 
fingers of one hand, an accomplishment which all Spanish 
ladies possessed. They belonged to the noblest families 
in Spain, and were very pretty and covered with magnifi- 
cent jewels; but the prettiest and most gorgeous of 
all, the Duke of Alba's daughter, wore an ornament 
which does not generally form part of the dress of a 
young lady. This was a pistol, slung by a ribbon 
from her side, and plainly intended for use. Under 
the balcony of the Countess of Ognate, where the 
king and his mother were stationed, the queen drew 
rein and looked up. The gilded lattice of the bal- 
cony opened about a hand's breadth, and the face of 
the king could be partly seen. He touched with his 
handkerchief his mouth, his eyes, and his heart, which 
was the warmest sign of devotion a Spaniard could 
give, and after he had repeated this several times 
the queen bowed low over her saddle and continued 
her way. 

Thanks to the queen-mother, and very much to the 
wrath of the Camarera Mayor, Marie Louise was some- 
times permitted to see the Marquise de Villars, the French 
ambassadress, and together they would practise the lan- 
guage of the fan, which no one but a native-born Spanish 
woman can speak properly. Marie Louise would gaze 
with admiration, too, at the walk of her maids of honour, 
so different from that of even the great ladies of France. 
Yes, in spite of the hideous clothes they wore, and the 
stupid customs which made her life a burden, there was 
plenty worthy of praise in her new home, and if only she 
could get rid of that terrible old lady-in-waiting, and have 
a few of her friends about her, she would soon be per- 
fectly happy. And it was a great thing that she could 
go out with the king on the hunting expeditions which 
he loved! No queen of Spain had ever done that before, 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! U5 

and she owed it to the queen-mother. To be sure it 
was rather tiresome to have to drive to the meet in 
one of the coaches with shiny green curtains, and, 
standing on the step, spring by yourself into the saddle, 
because it was death to any man to touch the queen; but 
by-and-by that might be altered, and meantime she 
must have patience. By-and-by it was altered, and she 
was allowed to mount at the door. One day a hunt had 
been arranged, and the queen grew tired of waiting for 
the king, who was talking to his minister on the balcony, 
and ordered her horse to be brought for her to mount. 
The courtyard was full of people, and something must 
have frightened the animal, for before the queen had 
seated herself firmly in the saddle it reared and threw, 
her on the ground, her foot still in the stirrup. The 
horse plunged wildly, and it seemed as if she must be 
kicked to death or dashed to pieces. What was to be 
done? Everyone looked on in horror, but no one dared 
stir. Each movement of the horse might mean death to 
her, but a finger laid on her body would certainly mean 
it to them. Yet it was not a sight that a Spanish 
gentleman could bear calmly, and with one impulse 
Don Luis de Las Torres and Don Jaime de Soto 
Major sprang out from the crowd and rushed towards 
the horse. One seized it by its bridle and checked its 
rearing, though it nearly knocked him down; the other 
caught the queen's foot and freed it from the stirrup. 
Then, the danger to her being over, they turned and fled 
to the stables, prepared to ride to the frontier before the 
penalty could be enforced. The queen, strange to say, 
was unhurt, except for bruises, and had not lost her senses. 
Unaided she scrambled to her feet, when the young conde 
de Penaranda knelt before her, and implored her to obtain 
the pardon of his friends from the king. His Majesty, 
who by this time had run down from the balcony, 
and in great agitation had reached the queen's side, 
overheard the count's words, and ordered the two gen- 



116 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 



tlemen to be summoned before him that he might give 
them his own thanks and that of the queen for rescuing 
a life so dear to him at the peril of their own. But all this 




was later, and in 1680 the Queen of Spain had to mount as 
best she could from her coach. 

On the evenings on which they did not go to the theatre 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 117 

she and the king played at ombre together; but the Spanish 
cards were almost as thin as paper, and were painted 
quite differently from the French, and she had to learn 
them all over again. On the days that they did not hunt 
the king used often to take her to visit some of the con- 
vents, which were numerous in Spain; but this she disliked 
more than anything. The nuns were so stiff and so silent, 
and she grew so weary of putting questions to them, to 
4^which they only answered 'Yes' or 'No.' Luckily the 
king always took two of his dwarfs with him, and they 
chattered without fear of anybody; but, even so, the queen 
was thankful when she was told that lunch was ready. 
A roast chicken was always provided for her, and the 
king felt rather vexed with her for eating so much and not 
being content with the light cakes and fruit that satisfied 
him. Poor Marie Louise! as time went on, and the king's 
health grew weaker and her pleasures fewer, she became 
fonder and fonder of sweet things — ' dulces ' as they were 
called — and was always sucking lozenges of some sort 
while she played with her dogs, till at length she ended by 
losing her figure, though she never lost her beauty. How- 
ever, now she was only just married, and did not know 
the ten weary years that stretched in front of her before 
she died, for although the king adored her, he very seldom 
allowed herjto influence his will or to change any of 
the iron rules of custom. She was, indeed, permitted to 
have an occasional interview with Madame d'Aulnoy, who 
was at that time living in Madrid, and has left a most 
interesting account of all she saw there. On the first 
visit she paid she found Marie Louise in a room covered 
with mirrors, seated, in a beautiful dress of pink velvet 
and silver, close to the window, which was covered by a 
gilded lattice and blue silk curtains, so that for anything 
she could see outside there might just as well have been 
no window at all. The queen jumped up with delight at 
the sight of her visitor, to whom she could talk freely about 
all the gossip from Paris, of which she only heard in letters 



118 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

from the kind Madame her stepmother. Of course she 
knew quite well that the Camarera Mayor hated her to 
speak French, which she could not understand, and would 
be crosser than ever that evening; but the queen did not 
care, and when she said good-bye to her visitor implored 
her to come again very soon and to bring all her letters 
with her. As it happened, the very next day Madame 
d'Aulnoy received some particularly interesting ones about 
the marriage of the queen's cousin, the Prince de Conti, 
and wrote to ask if the queen would Hke to see it; but the 
Duchess of Terranova answered that 'Her Majesty the 
Queen of Spain never received the same visitor at such 
short intervals,' so Madame d'Aulnoy was forced to copy 
out the description of the wedding ceremonies, and beg 
humbly that the lady-in-waiting would give it to her 
mistress. 

As time wore on the duchess became more and more 
tyrannical, and the queen more and more impatient. From 
her childhood she had always loved pets of all kinds, and 
had brought two talking parrots and several silky-eared 
spaniels with her to Spain. Her favourite dog always 
slept in her room, on a cushion of blue silk, close to the 
queen's bed; but one night, instead of sleeping soundly, as 
it generally did, it got up and moved restlessly about. 
The queen heard it, and fearing it might wake the king, 
she crept out of bed to bring it back to its place. Now, 
in those times, when there were no matches, it was very 
difficult to get a light, and unfortunately it was the custom 
that the Queen of Spain should sleep in total darkness, 
except for the fire, which had gone out. In groping about 
the huge room after her spaniel the queen upset a chair, 
which woke the king, who Hkewise got up to see if 
anything was the matter. At the first step he took he 
fell over his wife, and struck his foot against a table, 
which made him very cross, as she perceived by the 
tone of his voice when he asked her what she was 
doing. 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 119 

'I was looking for my dog,' she said; *it was so resdess 
I was afraid it would wake you.' 

'What!' he cried angrily, 'are the king and queen of 
Spain to leave their beds because of a miserable little 
dog!' And as at this moment the wandering spaniel 
lurched up against his leg, he gave it a kick which made 
it howl violently. Marie Louise stooped down and patted 
it, and consoled it, and laid it on its cushion again, 
while she returned to bed. Meantime the king, afraid 
to move lest he should hurt himself more than he had 
done already, stood still where he was, and shouted for 
the queen's ladies to bring a torch and light the candles, 
which they did as fast as possible, and all grew quiet 
again. But when the queen awoke in the morning the 
dog was not on its cushion, neither was anything more 
known of it, in spite of the bitter tears the queen shed 
over its fate. Soon after this her Majesty was out driving 
in the afternoon, when the Camarera Mayor, who had 
been in a very bad temper for many days, suddenly 
ordered the two parrots to be brought to her. The 
French maids who had charge of them felt very uncom- 
fortable, but dared not disobey, and when the birds ar- 
rived she wrung their necks with her own hands. Shortly 
after the queen came in, and bade her dogs and parrots 
to be fetched to amuse her, as she often did when the 
king was not in the room, for he did not like animals. 
The two maids looked at each other, but did not move. 

'Don't you hear me? What is the matter?' asked the 
queen. 

'Oh! Madame!' faltered the maid; and then, bursting 
into tears, stammered out the story. The queen's face 
grew white, but she said nothing, and sat where she was, 
thinking. By-and-by the Camarera Mayor entered, and, 
as required by etiquette, stooped down to kiss the queen's 
hand; but, when she bent over, a stinging pain ran 
through her, as her Majesty dealt her a violent slap on 
each cheek. The duchess staggered back from surprise 



120 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 



as much as from the blow, but her furious words were 
checked on her tongue at the sight of the still, pale girl 
whose face was so new to her. Leaving the room, she 
summoned all her relations, and, choking with anger, 
she informed them of the insult she had received; then, 
accompanied by no less than four hundred kinsfolk, all 
belonging to noble families, she went to complain to the 
king. 




\\e, GanvarefaL J\ayof ^ets KeY* eatS bo>ce<i. ! 



Now Charles had passed all his hfe with people who 
did everything according to rule, and it took some time 
for his slow mind to grasp that a queen of Spain could 
have so far lost command of herself as to have adminis- 
tered punishment with her own hands, whatever might 
have been the provocation. He rose from his seat with an 
expressi-on of sternness, which filled the heart of the cruel 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 121 

and revengeful old woman with triumph, and made his 
way to the queen's apartments. But his wrath, great 
though it was, melted like snow before the caressing ways 
of his wife, and when the duchess entered, certain of victory, 
she found only defeat. However, furious though she might 
be, the Camarera Mayor saw that she had gone too far, 
and that unless she wished to drive the queen to confide 
in her mother-in-law, she must give her more liberty, and 
treat her with greater respect. She really tried to be 
gentler and more agreeable, and gave permission to the 
French ambassadress to visit the queen oftener; but her 
prejudices were so strong, and her temper so bad, that 
she usually broke her good resolutions. Foreigners she 
particularly hated, the French more than any others — 
and this the queen resented bitterly; so matters grew worse 
and worse. 

After Easter, Charles went, as regulated by custom, 
to pass a few days at the palace of the Escorial, which 
had been built by Philip II. to commemorate the battle 
of St. Quentin. Marie Louise found it very dull when 
he was away. She could not hunt, or drive, except with 
the curtains of the coach closely drawn, the duchess was 
crosser than ever, and time hung heavy on her hands. 
She wrote to her husband daily, and told him how much 
she missed him, and asked when he was coming back 
to Madrid. The king was always dehghted to get her 
letters, though the effort to answer them was beyond 
him. Once, however, when the queen had expressed 
herself even more kindly and affectionately than usual, 
he seized a pen, and slowly and painfully wrote these 
words : 

'Sefiora, it is very windy, and I have killed six 
wolves.' 

This he enclosed in a beautiful box of gold and enamel, 
and sent off by a messenger. 

It was not only the queen who suffered from the tyranny 



122 MI REIN A f MI REIN A f 

of the Camarera Mayor; her French maids fared even 
worse, and at length they could bear it no longer, and 
begged the queen to let them go back to France. This 
was a great blow to her, but she did not blame them, 
though how to get the necessary money she did not 
know, for the country grew daily poorer, and the queen 
herself never had a penny to spend. Still, she felt she 
must raise it somehow, and at length, to her bitter 
humiliation, had to borrow it, probably from the French 
ambassador, though this we are not told. When her 
French maids had departed for the 'charmant pays de 
France,' which she herself was never again to see, 
she had no society but that of the king and the Camarera 
Mayor, for the maids of honour were forbidden to 
speak to her. Her naturally good temper became irri- 
table, and her high spirits began to settle down into 
melancholy. The king, unobservant though he was, 
noticed this, and it troubled him, though he was too much 
used to royal etiquette to guess the cause. It was a 
trivial thing which, as generally happens, caused the 
smouldering quarrel to break forth into a flame. The 
queen found the duchess spying on some of her letters, 
in the hope that she might steal one or two from France 
which it would be worth while to get interpreted. The 
queen was quite aware of these practices — she had 
found her more than once hstening at the door when the 
king was talking over state affairs; but the duchess had 
been more than usually rude that day, and Marie Louise 
could bear it no longer. Standing perfectly still at the 
door till the lady-in-waiting should turn round and see 
her, she waited in silence. The duchess did turn round, 
and, starting violently, began to stammer out excuses. 
The queen took no notice; she did not even look at her, 
but slowly left the room and walked straight to the 
king's apartments. Once there her self-control gave way, 
and, her eyes blazing with anger, she told the king that 
she would submit to the Camarera Mayor's insolence 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 123 

no longer, and that she insisted on her dismissal at 
once. 

*I don't understand/ answered Charles, in a puzzled 
way; 'what is it you say? Dismiss the Camarera Mayor? 
But it is impossible! Such a thing was never heard of!' 

'It will have to be heard of now,' said the queen sternly. 
Then, throwing her arms round his neck, she cried: *Oh! 
Senor, don't you see how unhappy she makes me? Surely 
you do not wish me to be sorry I came to Spain ? I thought 
you loved me, and yet you suffer me — me, the 
queen — to be insulted and made miserable all the day 
long.' 

Charles did not reply; but his face changed and softened, 
and he pressed his hands upon her arms. 'My queen, 
my queen,' he murmured gently, 'I do love you; and if 
the duchess makes you miserable, as you say, I will dis- 
miss her, and you shall choose a Camarera Mayor to take 
her place. Only be careful, because next time it must be 
for ever.' 

'Oh, thank you! thank you! how good you are,' ex- 
claimed the queen. And she returned to her own apart- 
ments, with her head held high, and an expression which 
boded httle good to the duchess, who was watching behind 
a curtain. But weeks went on, and as no new lady-in- 
waiting was appointed, the duchess began to hope that 
she would remain after all, and as her spirits rose, one 
by one she tried to resume all her little tyrannies. But, 
to her surprise, the queen no longer obeyed as she had 
done before. She did not argue or scold — she simply 
took no notice, and behaved as if the duchess was not 
there. And this angered the old lady far more deeply 
than any other treatment could have done. The truth 
was Marie Louise had laid to heart the king's warning, 
and was very careful in making her choice. It was not 
easy, for she had her husband and his mother to please 
as well as herself, and two or three ladies, to whom she 
offered the post, returned humble thanks for the honour, 



124 MI REIN A I MI REIN A I 

but either were too old or could not leave their chil- 
dren. The position of gaoler to the queen was not 
one envied by everyone. At length, to the joy of them 
all, the place was accepted by the Marquesa de Aytona, 
a lady of great good sense and a charming companion. 
The Duchess of Terranova shook with rage, and gave 
orders that her trunks should be packed. But before 
she could leave the palace, or the marquesa enter it, 
the new Camarera Mayor was seized with illness, and 
in a few days was dead. The duchess was triumphant. 
'The luck is all on my side,' she said to herself, and 
desired her maids to put her clothes back in the great 
wardrobes. 

So the whole weary business had to be gone through 
again. But after much talk the queen agreed to accept 
the Duchess of Albuquerque, a clever, well-read woman, 
who could enjoy conversation with learned people and 
knew what was being thought and done outside the bounds 
of Spain. The king, who was greatly pleased at her 
appointment, sent for the duchess to his own apartments, 
and told her that he was well satisfied at the queen's, 
choice, but that he desired the new Camarera Mayor to 
understand that her Majesty was to have more liberty 
and more amusement than before; she was to drive out 
when she wished, and was to ride, and go late to bed, as 
had been her strange custom when in France. For himself, 
he could never sit up after eight; but under the Duchess 
of Albuquerque's rule he found so much to amuse him, 
that, by-and-by, he did not say good-night till it was fully 
ten. 

The nomination of the Duchess of Albuquerque had 
taken place so secretly that the old lady-in-waiting was 
in ignorance of it, and had by this time persuaded 
herself that the king could not do without her. Her 
numerous relations also took this view, and by their 
advice she determined on a master-stroke of policy to 
render her position securer than ever. One day, while 



MI REIN A I MI REIN A! 125 

the king and queen, surrounded by the court officials, 
were waiting for dinner to be announced, the duchess 
came forward as the king rose to pass into the dining- 
room, and, dropping a low curtesy, asked leave to retire 
from her post about the queen's person. She imagined 
— and so did the courtiers who watched breathlessly 
for the result — that his Majesty would bid her con- 
tinue in her charge; while the queen's heart stood still, 
fearing that the king's courage might fail before the 
woman who held the chains of custom in her hands; that 
his promise to her would be broken, and her last chance 
of happiness and freedom thrown to the winds. But 
'it is always the unexpected that happens,' so says the 
proverb. 

'Go as soon as you hke, Sefiora,' answered the king; 
'you have my permission to retire immediately, as you 
wish it.' The duchess was struck dumb for an instant 
with surprise, then, recovering herself, began to stammer 
out some excuses; but the king did not wait to hear what 
they were, and walked on to his dinner. 

Whatever the duchess's wrath might be, she went all 
through that evening (which must have seemed endless) 
without showing her feehngs. She knew she was hated 
by every creature in the palace, and would not give them 
the satisfaction of noting her humiHation. The night was 
passed in feverishly walking up and down, and in giving 
directions to her maids to pack her boxes afresh. Quite 
early she entered the queen's room to take farewell of 
her mistress, and when Marie Louise, who felt some pity 
for her mortification, tried to say a few good-natured 
words, the duchess only answered haughtily that she 
hoped her successor might please her Majesty better, and 
left. When she returned to her own apartments she found 
them filled with ladies, who condoled with her on the 
ingratitude of the queen and the weakness of the 
king. 

'I have no need at all of your compassion,' repHed 



126 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

the duchess, who probably did not believe in their lamen- 
tations. 'I am thankful to quit this place, where I shall 
never more set foot, and to be going to Sicily, where I can 
enjoy the rest and peace which Madrid could never give 
me.' But as she spoke she picked up a beautiful fan that 
was lying on a table, and breaking it in two, threw the 
pieces on the floor and stamped on them. 

The winter of 1680 was very cold, and the poor people 
suffered dreadfully. The queen did all she could to help 
them, but it was not much, for money was scarce, and 
though great galleons still sailed into Cadiz laden with 
nuggets of gold and silver, as in the palmy days of 
the Emperor Charles V. (Charles I. of Spain), most of 
them belonged to the merchants, and only a small part 
reached the king. The days passed heavily for the queen, 
who had in great measure lost the love of books which 
had marked her childhood, and had been an inheritance 
from her Stuart mother. She did read sometimes, but 
she loved far better to be in the open air, riding or hunting, 
and now this was impossible. So she welcomed joyfully 
the news that some Flemish ladies and gentlemen were 
skating on a lake near Buen-Retiro, and instantly ordered 
her coach, to go and watch them from the windows of 
the palace. They did not look cold, as they swept round 
in curves, with shining eyes and glowing cheeks; and 
how Marie Louise longed to be skimming about with 
them! But this would not have been permitted even in 
France, and after a while she remembered that it was 
growing late, and returned to Madrid. That evening a 
message was brought to her, through the Duchess of 
Albuquerque, that some Spanish ladies had come to 
request her Majesty's leave to skate in masks the 
following day. They did not wish their names to be 
known, they said, but they were quite sure they could 
prove themselves as much at home on the ice as any of 
the Flemings. The queen not only granted permission 
to wear the masks, but sent word that she would come 



MI REIN A! MI REIN A I 



127 



and watch them and judge of their skill. It was cer- 
tainly very surprising, and the fact that Spanish ladies 
could at that time skate at all was still more so. They all 




Th.e Qjueen^ envies tlie Fleirp^h ^kateF>S- 



wore short skirts, which showed their beautiful feet, and 
had black velvet masks under their plumed hats. They 
danced the branle, and the sarabande, their castanets 



128 MI REIN A! MI REIN A! 

sounding merrily through the air, till Marie Louise gulped 
down a sob of envy as she recollected sadly that 'a queen 
of Spain has no legs.' Suddenly, in the dance, the most 
graceful skater of them all backed on to a piece of 
thin ice; it gave way under her, and she fell in, scream- 
ing. The gentlemen at once came to her aid, but the 
ice broke beneath their weight, and soon several of 
them were struggHng in the water together. At last 
the poor lady was brought dripping to the bank, and as 
she had lost her mask the queen could see that she was 
about sixty, and very ugly. 'Ah, she did well to wear a 
mask,' said Marie Louise, with a laugh, to her Camarera 
Mayor. 

If the queen could not skate she could by this time 
dance the Spanish dances as well as anybody, and espe- 
cially she delighted in the canaris and the sarabande. One 
evening Don Pedro of Aragon gave a ball for her,, and she 
proved herself so graceful and so spirited in all the steps 
and figures, that the king came up when it was over and, 
taking her by the arms, he repeated more than once: 'My 
queen! my queen! you are the most perfect creature in the 
whole world.' 

And so he thought, not only till her death, but after 
it. As long as she lived her brightness and enjoyment 
of everything that she was allowed to enjoy seemed to 
kindle some answering sparks in him; but when she died, 
at the age of twenty-seven, he ceased to make any efforts, 
and sunk more and more into a state of semi-idiocy. 
They had no children, and the dogs which the queen 
petted and spoilt did not make up for them. It was not 
the custom in those days for royal people to travel about 
from one country to the other, and in spite of her real 
affection for her husband and his mother, Marie Louise 
was very much alone. She had no one to laugh with, 
no one to whom she could talk freely, no one who cared 
for the things she cared for. She was young, yet life was 
one long effort, and perhaps she was not sorry when the 
end came. 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

On a hot June day in the year 1644 a baby lay by her 
mother's side in Bedford House in Exeter. The 'house 
itself is gone now, but its name still remains behind in 
'Bedford Circus,' which lies between quiet, old-fashioned 
Southernhay and the busy High Street. It seems a 
strange far-off birthplace for a daughter of a king of Eng- 
land, but the Civil War was then at its height, and 
Charles T. had bidden the queen leave Oxford, where she 
had taken refuge, and seek for safety in the loyal West. 
So on a bright spring morning, just before the battle of 
Newbury, Henrietta Maria set out on her journey, saying 
farewell to her husband for the last time, though this she 
did not know. The baby, a tiny dehcate creature, had 
for its lady-in-waiting a niece of the famous duke of Buck- 
ingham, who had been stabbed sixteen years before. She 
had been married as soon as she grew up to lord Dal- 
keith, the son of the earl of Morton, but had left her own 
children at the prayer of the queen, who felt that the baby 
would be safer anywhere than with its mother. Indeed, 
not a fortnight after the birth of the Httle girl a messenger 
rode in hot haste into Exeter, saying that an army under 
Essex was marching upon the town. To remain in the 
city was only to attract danger to her child, so, weak and 
ill as she was, the queen laid her plans for a speedy flight. 
There is a letter from her to Charles, dated June 2%, tell- 
ing him that it is for his sake she is seeking shelter in France, 
as well she knows he would come to her help, which would 
only place him in the more peril. Then she kissed her 
10 129 



130 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

baby, and, with three faithful attendants, started for Fal- 
mouth. 

It was mid-summer, yet when we read of all that the 
queen suffered it seems wonderful that she ever lived to 
reach the town. Hardly had the party got out of sight 
of the Cathedral towers of Exeter when they saw a troop 
of men in glittering armour riding towards them. Luck- 
ily in a wooded hollow near by was a small hut, half in 
ruins, and here they hid themselves, scarcely able to breathe 
from fear, as the loud voices of the soldiers broke the still- 
ness, jesting over the queen's fate. But they passed in 
a cloud of dust, never guessing that only a few feet of 
grass had lain between them and their prey, and when 
darkness fell the fugitives crept out and were soon mak- 
ing their way over Dartmoor. Here they were joined 
by lord Jermyn, who till her death loyally followed the 
queen's fortunes, and by the little dwarf Sir Geoffrey Hud- 
son, who in happier days had been made a knight by 
Charles I. This terrible journey had lasted for a fort- 
night before the queen found herself on board a small 
Dutch ship bound for France. Half-way across the 
Channel the ship was spied by an English vessel on the 
lookout for French cruisers, which immediately gave 
chase. At one time escape appeared impossible, and all 
the fighting blood of Henri IV. beat high in the veins of 
his daughter. 'If capture is sure, blow up the vessel,' 
she said to the captain, who stood at the prow, keeping 
an anxious watch. 'As for death, I fear it not at all, but 
alive they shall never have me.' Fortunately a crowd of 
French boats now appeared in the offing, and the English 
ship altered her course and steered for the coast of Devon. 
Then a gale sprang up and again they were all in peril. 
When morning broke the friendly fleet had been scattered 
far and wide, and the Dutch captain placed the fugitives 
in a small boat, which was rowed to shore. Oh how 
thankful Henrietta Maria was to hear her native language 
once again and to feel herself in France ! She had only a 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 131 

peasant's hut to sleep in and peasant's food to eat, but for 
the first time during many months she was able both to 




sleep and eat without a dread of being roused up to fly. 
By and bye all her terrors would awake on behalf of those 



132 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

whom she had left behind her, but at present she was 
too exhausted to be able to think at all. And so she 
rested till the news of her arrival reached Paris, and the 
king of France's mother, Anne of Austria, sent carriages 
and an escort to bring her unfortunate sister-in-law home 
to the Louvre. 

Now the queen had been quite right when she said 
that when the king heard of her plight he would march 
with all speed to her deliverance; but the messenger to 
whom she had entrusted her letter was forced to go wa- 
rily for fear of being captured, and the royal army was 
already far on the road to Exeter before Charles learned 
that Henrietta Maria was safe in France. It was then 
too late to turn back, and, besides, was there not the child 
to think of? So onward he marched, Charles, prince of 
Wales, then fourteen, riding beside him. Right glad was 
lady Dalkeith to see the royal standard floating from the 
walls of Exeter Castle, for the Parhamentary forces had 
long since gone elsewhere. The king was delighted 
with his baby daughter, who had been christened a few 
days before his arrival by her mother's name; for the child 
was so dehcate that it was doubted whether each fresh 
attack of convulsions would not be her last. He made 
what arrangements he could for her comfort and safety, and 
then bade good-bye to her for the last time. 'You are 
safer here than you would be with me,' he said as he bent 
over her cradle; then he mounted his horse and galloped 
away, for the tide of battle had rolled east. 

A year later Exeter had to suffer a real siege, which 
lasted all through the winter. It was in vain that lady 
Dalkeith formed plans for escaping with the baby into 
Cornwall; Essex and Waller laid their schemes better 
than that, and she soon found that it was quite impossible 
to get through the lines. By April all the supplies were 
exhausted, and Sir John Berkeley, governor of the city, as 
well as guardian of the princess, was obliged to surrender. 



HENRIETTE the siege baby 133 

Faithful to the end, he had obtained leave from the Par- 
liamentary generals to carry away all the goods that be- 
longed to his charge, and then accompanied her and lady 
Dalkeith to Salisbury. The Parliament, however, had 
other uses for their money than the payment of Henri- 
ette's pension, which had likewise been agreed on, and 
if lady Dalkeith had not taken her and her attendants 
to her own house on the Thames the poor child might have 
fared badly. When, however, the rulers of the nation 
had time to think about the matter, they desired that 
the princess should be taken away from her governess 
and placed with her brother and sister, Henry and EKza- 
beth, in St. James's Palace. But this was more than 
lady Dalkeith could bear. Finding that all her letters 
were unnoticed and unanswered, she made up her mind 
what to do, and one July morning she rose early and put 
on a suit of ragged old clothes that lay ready for her and 
fastened a hump on her shoulder. Then, waking the 
httle princess, she quickly dressed her in a set of boy's 
garments as dirty and ragged as her own. 

'Now you are my Httle boy Pierre,' said she; but Hen- 
riette cried and declared she wouldn't wear such ugly 
things, and that she was not Pierre but a princess. Hap- 
pily she was only between two and three and could not 
speak plain, for she never failed to repeat this to every 
kind soul who stopped to give them a groat or a piece of 
bread. With the child on her back lady Dalkeith walked 
the whole way to Dover, stopping every now and then to 
rest under the green hedges, and seeking at night the shelter 
of a barn. The farmers' wives were very good-natured, 
and praised the baby's beauty and curling hair, and gave 
her warm milk to drink and soft sweet-smelling hay to 
lie on. 

'Dear heart! What bright eyes he has,' they would 
say, ' and what might his name be ? ' 

'Pierre! he is a French boy,' answered lady Dalkeith 
in broken English; and then the child would frown and 



134 • HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

say something about 'Pierre' and 'ugly clothes,' which 
nobody could make out. 

'Hearken to him, then,' they would murmur with ad- 
miration, 'don't he speak pretty?' But the governess, 
fearful lest someone quicker witted than the rest might 
understand his prattle, hastened to thank them heartily 
and to go on her way. Weary and worn was she when 
the walls of Dover hove in view, but the sight gave her 
fresh courage, and she went straight to the harbour, where 
a French ship lay at anchor. Here she was joined by 
Sir John Berkeley, who had never lost sight of her all 
through her journey, and now came forward and placed 
her under the charge of the captain, whose vessel was 
ready for sea. The wind was fair, and in a few hours 
lady Dalkeith and the child were standing on the French 
shore, safe at last. 

'Now you are not "Pierre" any more but princess 
Henriette," said lady Dalkeith as the vessel cast anchor, 
and she drew out a beautiful blue satin dress and lace 
cap from a small bundle which Sir John Berkeley had 
handed to her. Henriette 's face brightened into smiles 
as she looked, and she stood quite still while they were 
put upon her. A messenger was hastily sent off to 
Paris to inform the queen-regent, Anne of Austria, of 
the escape of her niece, and as soon as possible carriages 
were again to be seen taking the road to the sea-coast. 
Great, heavy, lumbering vehicles they were, needing six 
or even eight horses to drag them through mud or out 
of ditches, but they seemed Hke the softest of beds to 
poor lady Dalkeith, after all she had undergone. When 
they reached the palace of St. Germain, where Henri- 
etta Maria was awaiting them, she fell seriously 
ill. 

The gratitude of both Charles and Henrietta knew no 
bounds, and poets made songs about the wonderful es- 
cape. At the urgent wish of the poor queen, lady Dal- 
keith, or lady Morton as she had now become, went with 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 



135 



them to Paris, and found there that she was almost as much 
a heroine as Henrietta Maria. But, indeed, misfortune 
only appeared to have doubled their friends, and every- 
one at court tried to see how much kindness they could 




iLady ^alKelth'5 jouriney l'op2)ovet' 



show them. Queen Anne, her two sons, Louis XIV., 
then about eight years old, and his brother Philippe, duke 
of Anjou, drove to the gate of Paris to meet them, and, 



136 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

assisting the royal exiles to mount the state coach which 
was in readiness, they escorted them through the crowded, 
shouting streets to the Louvre. This was to be their 
home, when they were not at St. Germain, and a large 
sum of money was given them for a pension. For a 
little while Henrietta felt that she was a queen again. Eng- 
lish poets and nobles, and English royalists waiting for 
brighter days, flocked around her, and played with the 
little princess. At home she had as many servants and 
attendants as of old, and when she took an airing soldiers 
and running footmen escorted her carriage. But later 
things began to change. Affairs in England grew worse 
and worse. The king needed more money than ever, 
and who should send it — as long as she had it — but 
his wife? Besides this, the civil war, called the Fronde, 
soon broke out in France. The pension allowed the 
English queen was paid more and more irregularly, and 
by and bye ceased altogether. Her own plate had been 
melted down, her jewels sold for her husband's cause; 
at last a little golden cup, which she used daily, was the 
only piece of gold she had left. The queen-mother and 
the king were no better off than she. 'I have not a far- 
thing with which to procure a dinner or buy a dress,' says 
Anne of Austria, while at St. Germain the beds were bare 
and without hangings. 

The winter that followed was bitter for all — for Hen- 
rietta and the little princess no less than for the poor of 
Paris. Three weeks before the execution of Charles 
I. the cardinal de Retz went to pay a call on the exiled 
queen, at the Louvre. It was snowing fast, and his 
carriage wheels frequently stuck in the drifts, yet when 
he entered the room there was no fire, and the air struck 
chill in his bones. The child was lying in bed and her 
mother was sitting by, teUing her stories. The queen 
received the cardinal cheerfully, but he was almost too 
shocked and distressed to speak at first, then bit by bit 
he found out that they were not only frozen but almost 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 137 

starved. They could not pay for food, and the trades- 
people would not trust them. Instantly taking leave, 
the cardinal hastened home, and loaded a cart with all 
that they could possibly want, while as soon as possible 
he induced the Parliament of Paris to vote the exiles a 
sum of money large enough to keep them till better times 
came. Meanwhile it was well indeed for little Hen- 
riette that lady Morton was with them. Her mother's 
heart grew heavier and heavier as the days passed on 
without news from England. She would sit by the fire 
for hours together, staring straight before her, seeming 
neither to hear nor to see. Even the child's voice failed 
to rouse her. At length, towards the end of February, 
the blow fell. Charles was dead — had been dead three 
weeks — and not a whisper had ever reached her. Si- 
lent as before, she rose up, and leaving the princess in the 
hands of lady Morton and her confessor, father Cyprian, 
she fled for solitude and prayer to a Carmelite convent. 
When the queen returned, dressed in the deep mourn- 
ing of those times — even the walls were hung with black 
— her little daughter felt that a change had come over 
her, though she could not have told exactly what it was. 
But lady Morton knew. It was that all hope had died 
out of her face, and to the end she would be, as she often 
signed herself, 'the unhappy queen. La Reine Malheu- 
reuse.' 

Between Paris and St. Germain little Henri ette passed 
the first seven years of her life, and if the clash of arms 
and the roar of cannon were as familar to her as nursery 
songs are to more fortunate children, the echo of the same 
sounds came to her across the water from England, where 
her brother Charles was fighting for his crown. One 
day when she entered the room, she found the queen sit- 
ting with her head on her hands, weeping bitterly. The 
child stood for a moment at the door wondering what 
to do, and then went up softly and laid her cheek silently 
against her mother's. 'One by one they are going,' 



138 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

cried the poor woman; 'your sister Elizabeth' — and 
Henriette wept too for the death of the sister whom she 
had never seen. A few weeks later arrived the news 
that the queen's son-in-law, William of Orange, had died 
of small-pox at The Hague, and in him the family had 
lost another friend, and a sure refuge in all their troubles. 
Henrietta Maria's heart ached for her eldest daughter, 
gay, charming, yet melancholy like all the Stuarts, left 
a widow at nineteen, with only a baby son to comfort 
her. Henriette was very much grieved for her mother's 
distress, but as her sisters were merely names to her, she 
was soon ready to attend to her lessons again, given to 
her daily by lady Morton and the good father Cyprian. 
She would leave the side of her sad mother and seek her 
governess, and, sitting at one of the windows of the 
Louvre that overlooked the Seine, would sing some 
of the songs composed by the loyal Cavahers who had 
fought for her father. And the passers-by beneath 
would look up at the sound of the guitar, as the Httle 
singer would pour out with all her heart 'My own and 
only love I pray,' by the great Marquis of Montrose; or 
'When love with unconfined wings hovers within the 
gate,' or 'Bid me to live, and I will Hve, Thy Protestant 
to be.' Only she never sang this in the queen's pres- 
ence, for Her Majesty did not love Protestants, as Hen- 
riette well knew! But the guitar was not the only in- 
strument the princess was taught to play. She played 
too on the harpsichord, which she did not love as well 
as the guitar, for one reason because it was a lum- 
bering thing and she could not carry it about with her. 
She also learnt to dance, and when the mob besieged the 
gates of Paris, or poured shouting through the streets, 
in one small room on the top of the old palace a little girl 
might have been seen practising the steps of the coranto, 
the pavane, the branle, and other dances in fashion at 
court. And when she was tired of dancing, lady Mor- 
ton would read to her tales out of the old chronicles of 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 139 

Froissart or de Comines, or stories from Malory of Lance- 
lot and Arthur, or repeat to her some of the poems of days 
gone by. 

So the months slipped by, when one evening a mes- 
senger arrived at the Louvre and asked to see lady Mor- 
ton, who was at that moment telling Henriette about the 
Crusades, in which her ancestors, both French and Eng- 
lish, had borne so great a part. The man was admitted, 
and bowing low first to the princess arid then to her gov- 
erness, he held out a letter bound with a black ribbon 
and sealed with black wax. Lady Morton turned pale 
as she took it, and as she read grew paler still. Her 
husband was dead; and there was no one to look after 
her children; she was therefore prayed to return at once. 
That was all. Signing to the messenger to retire, she has- 
tened to the queen and laid the letter before her. ' Your 
Majesty will see that I have no choice,' she said in a 
quiet voice which spoke of the pain of the present and 
that which was to come. Henrietta stooped and kissed 
her faithful servant, and answered, 'No, none; but we 
shall miss you sorely. Every day and every hour.' And 
so they did; and when, three years later, the news of 
her death was brought to them, it was the greatest 
grief that Henriette was to feel until she lost her little 
son. 

Look which way she would the poor queen could 
see nothing but disaster. Charles II. 's expedition proved 
an absolute failure, and once more he took refuge in France. 
But no misfortunes could damp his spirits, and, as always, 
his visit was a joy to Henriette. How he made her laugh 
by describing his ride on the pillion in woman's clothes, 
after the battle of Worcester, and the hours he spent seated 
in the oak, while his enemies passed and re-passed be- 
neath him. And about the time he hid in a cottage, 
with his hair cropped close like a serving-man, till he 
could make his way to London and get on board a ves- 
sel bound for France; and fifty other hairbreadth es- 



140 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

capes, which interested even his cousin, the 'Great 
Mademoiselle,' who usually cared about nothing that did 
not concern herself. Soon after this the Fronde ended, 
and things began to look a little brighter for France, 
and also for Henrietta. When Anne of Austria came 
into power again, she thought of her unhappy sister-in- 
law and her niece, and resolved to do what she could to 
make them more comfortable. She begged Henrietta 
Maria to leave the Louvre, where she had suffered so 
much, and come and live with her in the Palais Royal; 
and the Enghsh queen felt it would be ungracious to re- 
fuse such kindness, though she would have preferred 
staying where she was. After that a larger pension w^as 
given her, and with this Henrietta was able to buy a house 
outside Paris built nearly a hundred years before 
by Catherine de Medici, and, after putting aside a few 
rooms for herself, she invited some nuns from the con- 
vent of Sainte Marie to take up their abode in the other 
part, with mademoiselle de la Fayette as their abbess. 
Here the queen passed many months of every year, 
bringing with her the little princess. How pleased the 
nuns were to have the child, and how they petted and 
spoilt her! Many of them were women of high birth, 
and had lived at court before they determined to leave 
it for good, and the elder ones could tell Henriette thrill- 
ing tales of the War of the Three Henries, in which their 
fathers and her grandfather had fought. By and bye 
the road w^hich led from Paris would be covered with coaches 
and noisy with the tramp of horses, and Henriette 
would strain her neck out of the top windows to see which 
of the great ladies was coming to pay them a visit and 
to pray in the chapel. Ah! those were the royal uni- 
forms surrounding the big carriage drawn by six white 
horses. It was her aunt, queen Anne, who was always 
so good to her! and Henriette ran joyfully down to tell 
her mother. These excitements took place very often, 
and, in spite of the many services she had to attend, and 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 141 

the lack of other children to play with, the princess had 
hardly time to be dull. Besides, at the end of this same 
year, 1652, her two brothers, Charles and James, came 
to Paris, and of course the English queen and her daughter 
had to hurry back to the Palais Royal to receive them. 
Charles had been all his life very fond of his little sister, 
fourteen years younger than himself, with eyes that flashed 
with fun at his when La Grande Mademoiselle gave her- 
self more airs than usual, or aUowed herself to be im- 
pertinent to her poor relations, who never seemed to be 
aware of their position. Of course outwardly they be- 
haved beautifully and paid her the compHments that 
she loved, and as it never entered into her head that any 
one could make fun of her, Mademoiselle, the Centre of 
the Universe, no harm was done. But this time a quar- 
rel broke out between the good-natured, easy-going young 
king Charles and his mother. She had fallen under 
the influence of Walter Montagu, abbot of Pontoise, and 
he had persuaded her to put a stop to the services of the 
English Church, which had been held, for the benefit 
of the many fugitives from their native country, in a hall 
of the Louvre, and anyone wishing to use the form to 
which he was accustomed had to go to the house of the 
ambassador appointed by Charles himself. Very un- 
willingly the king was forced to attend this chapel, and 
his brother James also. Now the queen's three elder 
children were very much troubled at little Henriette being 
brought up a Roman Catholic, and had several times en- 
treated vainly that she might be allowed to follow the 
faith of her father. This made Henrietta Maria very 
angry, and although her confessor, father Phiflips, who 
was a sensible man, contrived for some years to keep the 
peace, when he was dead she suffered herself to be led 
entirely by the evil counsels of Montagu. Matters were 
made still worse a few months later, when her youngest 
son, Henry, duke of Gloucester, then about thirteen, ar- 
rived to join his family, and in his daily walks to and 



142 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

from his dancing and riding lessons always stopped at 
the ambassador's house to hear morning prayers. Henry's 
open affection for the English Church was more than 
his mother could bear. With the help of the abbe Mon- 
tagu she began to persecute the poor boy to change his 
religion, which he steadily refused to do. Charles had 
gone to Cologne, and only James, duke of York, was 
left to guard his young brother, whom Montagu was 
doing his best to force into a Jesuits' college. 

'They cannot send you there without your own con- 
sent, and that you must never give,' said James. 'You 
are an English subject, and bound to obey the king'; 
and then he sat down and wrote letters to the princess 
of Orange, to their aunt, the queen of Bohemia, and to 
Charles, who replied by upbraiding his mother with more 
anger than he had ever shown about anything in his life. 
But the fact that her children thought her in the wrong 
only increased Henrietta's obstinacy. She refused even 
to admit Henry to her apartments, and sent a message 
to him by Montagu that she would never see him again 
unless he would do as she wished. The duke of .York 
tried to soften her heart and bring her to reason, but fared 
no better, and when Henry fell on his knees before her 
as she was getting into her coach to go to Chaillot, she 
only waved him out of her path and bade the coachman 
drive on. The boy rose up, and turned, his eyes 
blazing with anger, to Montagu, w^ho stood watch- 
ing. 

'I owe this to you,' he said, 'and I will repeat to you 
the queen's message to me. Take heed that I see your 
face no more,' and, sorely distressed, he went straight 
to the chapel at the Embassy for comfort. When he 
returned to the Palais Royal he found that his bed had 
been stripped of its sheets, and that by the queen's orders 
no dinner had been cooked for him. Not knowing what 
to do, he went to the house of lord Hatton, where he was 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 



143 



warmly welcomed, and bidden to stay as long as he liked. 
But by the advice of the duke of York it was settled that 
he should quit Paris at once and put himself under 
Charles's protection at Cologne. This counsel seemed 
good, but where was the money to be got for the jour- 
ney? No one had any, for the queen held the purse. 




Then the marquis of Ormonde stepped forward and 
pointed to the George, which hung from the blue rib- 
bon of the Garter on his breast. 'I will get the money,' 
he said. It was the last thing he had to sell, and he sold 
it. 

That evening, in the early dusk, Henry crept into the 
Palais Royal to say good-bye to his sister. 



144 HEXRIETTE THE SIEGE BABV 

'But where are you going?' asked she, dinging to liini. 
'and when will you come back?' 

'Never, I think,' he answered bitterly. 'My motlier 
has bidden me see her face no more, and I must begone 
before she returns from vespers.' 

'Oh me! my mother! my brother!' cried Henriette, 
clasping him more tightly to her, and sobbing wildly as 
she spoke, ' What sliall I do ? what shall I do ? I am un- 
done for ever.' 

Thus Henry disappeared from her life, and though 
she did not forget him, many other things happened to 
occupy her thoughts. First there were her lessons, which 
she loved, and then the regent Anne, who pitied her lone- 
liness, often gave parties at the Louvre, at wliicl\ Henriette 
was present. Her mother thought her too young for 
these gaieties, as indeed she was according to our notions; 
but queen Anne would listen to nothing, and of coui-^e 
the princess herself enjoyed it all heartily. At the Louvre 
there were masques and balls and fancy dances, at which 
Henriette's future husband, the duke of Anjou, appeared 
dressed hke a girl; but the most brilliant festivity of all 
was given in 1653 ^Y Cardinal Mazarin, when his niece 
Anne-Marie Martinozzi married the king's cousin, Ar- 
mand, prince de Conti. Henriette, who was only nine, 
and small for her age, was escorted by her brothers James 
and Henry, and her beautiful dancing won her the praise 
of all. Three months later a court ballet, or what we 
should call now a musical comedy, was performed in a 
theatre, the music beimr written bv the famous LuUi 
himself. The young king, who was then about fifteen, 
played several ditTerent [characters, but appeared at 
the end as Apollo, with the Nine Muses grouped 
around him. While the little theatre rang with applause 
there stepped from their ranks, the princess Henriette 
as Erato, the muse of poetry, crowned with myrtle 
and roses. Holding a lyre to her breast, she recited 
some verses written expressly for her by the court 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 145 

poet Benserade and the pathos of the words and the 
beauty of the child drew tears from the eyes of the 
spectators. 

During the next two years queen Anne's beautiful rooms 
in the Louvre were the scene of many small dances, and none 
was thought complete without Henriette. With practice 
her dancing became more and more graceful, and for- 
tunate indeed was the young man who was allowed to 
be her partner in the coranto or the branle. All but 
king Louis; for it was noticed that he alone never asked 
his cousin to dance. This was, of course, observed by 
his mother, who was much grieved at his rudeness, though 
for a long while she said nothing, fearing lest he should 
take a dislike to the child, whom in her secret heart she 
might have been glad to welcome as a daughter-in-law. 
But one evening in the year 1655 the slight was so marked 
that the queen-regent could contain herself no longer. 
One of the usual small dances was to take place in the 
Louvre, and queen Anne begged her widowed sister-in- 
law for once to come out of her solitude and to see the 
king perform some new steps. Henrietta, touched both 
by the queen's kindness and the entreaties of her daughter, 
consented, especially as the ball was to be very private, 
and queen Anne, who had been ill, announced that she 
herself did not intend to wear full dress, and that no one 
else need do so. When the Kttle company had assembled 
the signal was given, and the branle was struck up by the 
violins. At the first note Louis XIV., who by this time 
was about seventeen years old and very handsome, ad- 
vanced to the side of madame de Mercoeur, one of the 
cardinal's nieces. 'The queen,' says an eye witness 
of the scene, 'astonished at his want of manners, rose 
quickly from her seat, drew away madame de Mercoeur, 
and told her son he must take the English princess for 
his partner. Queen Henrietta, who saw that queen 
Anne was really angry, went up to her hastily, and in 
a whisper begged her to say nothing to the king, for 
11 



146 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

her daughter had hurt her foot, and was unable to 
dance. 

'Very well,' replied queen Anne, ' if the princess can- 
not dance, the king shall not dance either.' Upon this 
the queen of England gave way, and allowed her daughter 
to dance, in order not to make a fuss, though she felt very 
much annoyed with the king for his behaviour. After 
the ball was over, queen Anne spoke to him very seri- 
ously about his behaviour, but he only answered sulk- 
ily. 

'I do not like Httle girls.' Henriette did not, however, 
trouble herself about the king's lack of attention and re- 
spect to her position as his cousin and a princess, but 
'took her pleasures wherever she found them,' according 
to the counsel of the wise French proverb. The court 
was never dull in Louis XIV. 's early years, and he was 
always planning something new, in which he could play 
the important part, for nobody in the world could ever 
be so great as Le Grand Monarque thought himself to 
be! When he got tired of balls, he arranged a band 
of nobles for the old sport of Tilting at the Ring. He 
divided them into parties of eight, and himself headed 
the troop, dressed in white and scarlet Hveries enbroi- 
dered in silver. The duke of Guise was the chief of the 
second set in blue and white and silver, and the duke 
of Candale of the third, whose colours were green and 
white. They wore small helmets with plumes to match, 
and their horses were decorated with fluttering ribbons. 
The three bands assembled in the gardens of the Palais 
Royal, and every window was filled with ladies, each wav- 
ing to her special knight. We are not told where the 
tilting actually took place, nor who won the prize, though 
we may feel pretty sure that it was arranged that the king 
should be the victor. Unluckily madame de Motteville 
who describes it all, cared more for the fine sight than 
for the game itself. 

Now that there was once more a court in Paris, it was 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 147 

visited by all kinds of distinguished people, and on these 
occasions Henriette was always present. But of all the 
guests that came to the Louvre, none was so strange as 
Christina, queen of Sweden, daughter of the great Gus- 
tavus Adolphus. Christina was very clever, and could 
read Greek, Latin and Hebrew, as well as several other 
languages, but she dressed as much like a man as she 
was able, and hated ceremonies and rules of courts. She 
was received by the duke of Guise when she entered France, 
and very much surprised was he at the curious sight she 
presented. 'The queen wore,' he writes, 'a man's wig, 
very high in the front and full at the sides, but the back 
of her head was dressed with some resemblance to a 
woman.' Her bodice was always laced crooked, and 
her skirt hung to one side, and was half open, showing 
her underclothes. 'She uses a great deal of pomade 
and powder; never puts on gloves, and her shoes exactly 
resemble those of a man.' Yet the queen, who had re- 
cently abdicated her throne in favour of her cousin and 
her Hberty, was only now a little past thirty and not bad 
looking. But her untidiness seems to have struck every- 
body, for a Httle later madame de Motteville speaks of a 
visit she paid the king and his mother at Compiegne, when 
she arrived with her wig uncurled and blown about by 
th^ wind, looking for all the world like a crazy gipsy. In 
spite of her odd appearance and ways, however, she was 
very popular with the French people; but we are not told 
what King Louis thought about her, and no doubt Hen- 
riette's sharp eyes saw many a funny scene, when the 
royal poHteness of both Louis and Christina was severely 
taxed. Happily for her during that year the widowed 
princess of Orange was paying her mother a long visit, 
so that the girl had someone to laugh with. Everybody 
was charmed with the princess royal, and she on her part 
was enchanted to get away from her stiff Dutch court, 
and enjoy herself with the young sister whom she had 
never seen. Balls were given in her honour, to all of 



148 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

which she took Henriette; and very unwillingly she her- 
self was obliged to play the part of a spectator, as her 
aunt, queen Anne, had forbidden all widows to dance 
in pubHc. However, there were plenty of private fetes, 
and here she could dance as much as she liked — and that 
was a great deal! Then plays were given at the Louvre 
for her amusement, and the young king wrote and acted 
a ballet on Cupid and Psyche, which everyone said was 
'wonderful,' though perhaps nobody thought it quite so 
' wonderful ' as the king himself. ' I have scarcely time 
to snatch a piece of bread,' the princess of Orange ex- 
claims happily, and even Mademoiselle has a good word 
for her cousin and for the jewels which she wore. It 
was a great holiday for princess Mary, but she did not 
suffer all the pleasure and admiration to spoil her or turn 
her head. We find her still thinking of how she can 
help her brothers, and making time to mourn her hus- 
band and to keep the day of his death sacred, though it 
was several years since his death. On Sundays she never 
missed going to the service at the English ambassador's, 
though her mother would fain have had her company 
in her visits to the convent of the Carmelites. Thus 
the year passed away till the illness of the little prince of 
Orange, afterwards William III., obliged her to return 
to the Hague. 

Henriette spent a dull time during the next two years, 
and her life seemed more dismal after the gay time of 
her sister's visit. Her mother grew more and more ill, 
and lived chiefly at Colombes or Chaillot. Every now 
and then, however, queen Anne begged leave for Henriette 
to come to a ball at the Louvre, or to a specially brilliant 
fete such as that given by Seguier, where Madem- 
oiselle, with her accustomed rudeness, tried to take pre- 
cedence of Henriette, which the queen of France would 
by no means allow. During the spring of 1658 car- 
dinal Mazarin invited the royal families of France and 
England, Monsieur, the king's uncle, and his daughter 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 



149 



Mademoiselle to be present at a supper and small dance 
held in his private apartments. As it was Lent, of course 




nothing but fish was eaten, but never had so many sorts 
of fish been seen before, cooked in so many different 



150 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

ways. After supper, and while the remainder of the guests 
were dancing, the two queens, Henri ette and Madem- 
oiselle, were conducted into a long gallery, filled with all 
kinds of beautiful things — jewels, china, furniture, rich 
stuffs of gold and silver, plate, gloves, fans, scent-bottles 
and a thousand other objects — for the cardinal's collec- 
tion was famous throughout Europe. 

'Here, Madame,' said Mazarin, bowing low before the 
queen, 'are the prizes for a lottery in which no one will 
draw blanks.' Mademoiselle drew a big diamond, but 
the first prize of all was a diamond bigger still, worth four 
thousand crowns, and this was won by a lieutenant in the 
King's Guards, called La Salle. 

It was towards the close of 1659 that the marriage of 
the king with his cousin Marie Therese, daughter of the 
king of Spain, was decided upon. In the country house 
of Colombes on the Seine tales of the preparations floated 
to the ears of Henriette, who would have enjoyed nothing 
so much as being in Paris in the midst of all the talk. In 
her secret heart she longed to go south with the royal cav- 
alcade; and gladly would her aunt have taken her, but 
queen Henrietta was ill and out of spirits, and greatly 
agitated by the news from England, where, Cromwell 
being dead, parties were divided as to the prospects of 
the accession of Charles II. She needed her daughter, 
and Henriette, though she loved amusement, was very 
tender-hearted and did not let her mother guess how great 
was her disappointment. The princess was now passed 
fifteen, and was looked on by the French people as their 
adopted child. She was taller than anyone had expected 
her to become, and had the long face of the Stuarts. Her 
hair was a bright brow^n, her skin was fair, and her eyes, 
unlike her mother's, were blue, while her hands and arms 
were famous for their beauty. Many women were more 
beautiful than she, but none had her charm, or could, 
like her, point a jest which left no sting behind it. Her 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 151 

aunt saw with pleasure that the eyes of her younger son 
frequently rested on her niece, whom a short time be- 
fore he had been tempted to despise, following in this 
the example of the king. If this marriage could be, as 
well as the other — ah, how happy it would make her! 
To Anne of Austria it mattered little that the princess 
was an exile and entirely dependent on France for the 
bread she ate and the clothes she wore. Such trifles 
might be of consequence to the duke of Savoy and the 
grand duke of Tuscany, both of whom had hastily re- 
jected the timid proposals put forth by the English queen, 
but the duke of Anjou (soon, by the death of his uncle, 
to become 'Monsieur' and duke of Orleans) was rich 
enough and distinguished enough to take a bride with- 
out a dowry. So the queen-mother set forth on the 
journey southwards which was to end in that other wed- 
ding, and before that was celebrated Charles XL had been 
called to his father's throne and his sister was a match for 
any king. 

'My head is stunned with the acclamations of the people,' 
writes Charles from Canterbury on May 26 to his 'deare, 
deare sister,' and amidst all the 'vast amount of business' 
attending the Restoration he found time to remember 
her love of riding, and to send her a saddle of green vel- 
vet, with trimmings of gold and silver lace. Even queen 
Henrietta forgot his illness and her troubles for a mo- 
ment. She was no longer La Reine Malheureuse, but 
the mother of a reigning king, and when Monsieur came 
galloping up to Colombes immediately after the royal 
couple had returned to Fontainebleau, Henrietta received 
him with open arms as her future son. Queen Anne 
was no less delighted than her sister-in-law, and herself 
came to Colombes in state to carry both mother and daughter 
to Fontainebleau in one of those old painted and 
gilded glass coaches that contained nine or ten people. 
Here they paid their respects to the bridal pair, who re- 



152 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

ceived them with great kindness. The young queen 
was a good-natured girl, with pretty fair hair and pink 
and white face, but stupid and ignorant, and never likely 
to be a rival to Henriette. Still they soon made friends, 
and then the princess drove home with her mother, both 
of them much pleased with their visit. After a ball 
given by Monsieur at his palace of St. Cloud, and other 
fetes at which Henriette was almost as much stared at 
as Marie Therese, came the state entry of the king and 
queen into Paris, and the queen-mother (as Anne of Aus- 
tria was now called) invited Henrietta Maria and her 
daughter to her balcony near a wonderful triumphal arch 
in the Rue Saint Antoine. It was August 26 and a beauti- 
ful day, and the narrow streets, as w^ell as the windows 
and even roofs of the houses, were thronged to over- 
flowing. The young queen sat alone in her glass coach, 
wearing a black dress heavily embroidered in gold and 
silver and covered with precious stones, which suited 
her fair complexion and pale golden hair. The king, 
also in gold and silver and mounted on a magnificent 
black horse, rode on the right of the coach, followed by 
his cousins, the Princess of the Blood, and the highest 
nobles in France, while on the left was Monsieur, gay 
and gallant on a white charger, diamonds blazing on his 
coat and on his plumed hat. 

Monsieur and the queen-mother wished that his mar- 
riage should take place at once, but Henrietta Maria would 
not hear of this, and insisted that it should be put off till 
she and her daughter had paid a visit to England, where, 
after sixteen years of exile, the family were at last to meet. 
But no sooner had they started than the news arrived 
that the young duke of Gloucester had died of small- 
pox after a few days' illness, and all their joy was damped. 
Henriette, indeed, amidst all the excitements around her, 
was more quickly consoled than either her mother or the 
princess royal, and the feehngs of the queen were tinged 
with remorse, as she remembered her last parting with 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 153 

the boy. The short period of mourning over, the court 
festivities began, and Charles was besieged by envoys 
asking for the hand of his sister, for her engagement to 
Monsieur had not yet been pubHcly announced. Among 
the petitioners was the emperor Leopold I., whom Madem- 
oiselle intended for herself, and great was her wrath 
when the fact came to her ears. Charles, however, was 
quite satisfied with the marriage that had been arranged, 
and contented himself with prevaihng on ParHament to 
settle a handsome sum on Henriette; which it was quite 
willing to do, as she had managed to charm both the Lords 
and the Commons, as well as everybody else. Great 
preparations were made for keeping Christmas in the 
good old fashion, which had been set aside for so many 
years. Everything was to be done according to the old 
rules, and a branch of the flowering thorn at Glastonbury 
was brought up by relays of horsemen for presentation 
to the king on Christmas Eve. But once again death 
stepped in, and turned their joy into grief, for the prin- 
cess royal fell ill of small-pox, and died in a few days, at 
the age of twenty-nine. The queen, in an agony of ter- 
ror for her one remaining daughter, removed Henriette 
from Whitehall to St. James's, where she received a let- 
ter from Monsieur, imploring them to set out at once 
for France. This they did, but Henriette was seized 
on board ship with an attack of measles, and the vessel 
was forced to put back into Portsmouth. Much anxiety 
was felt throughout both kingdoms as to the recovery 
of the princess, but at the end of a fortnight the doctors 
declared her well enough to travel. The risk was great, 
for it was January, and the slightest cold might have gone 
to her lungs; however, mercifully she took no harm, 
and her mother gave a sigh of rehef when they landed 
on French soil at Havre. Once in France it seemed 
as if no one could show them enough kindness. The 
king and queen, accompanied by Monsieur, came out 
from Paris to greet them, and on their entry next day 



154 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

the air was filled with the shouts of welcome given by 
the people. Everybody wished that the marriage should 
take place at once, but as Lent was close at hand the Pope's 
consent had to be obtained. This was always a long 
affair, and in the meantime cardinal Mazarin died, and, 
by order of the king, court mourning was worn for a fort- 
night, so that it was March 30 before the ceremony of 
betrothal was performed in the Palais Royal, by the grand 
almoner, monseigneur Daniel de Cosnac, bishop of Val- 
ence. Though the guests were few, consisting only of 
the nearest relations of the king of France, with the Eng- 
lish ambassadors, they were beautifully dressed, and 
wore all their jewels. Next morning, at twelve o'clock 
the bishop read the marriage service in the queen of Eng- 
land's private chapel, in the presence of Louis XIV., Anne 
of Austria, and Henrietta Maria. 

Perhaps it may seem that childhood ends with mar- 
riage, and that on her wedding-day we should say good- 
bye to Madame, as Henriette was now called. But, 
after all, she was not yet seventeen, and had a great deal 
of the child about her, and it may be interesting to hear 
how she spent the earliest months of her married life. 
Just at first she was as happy as even her mother could 
have wished. She and Monsieur lived at the Tuileries, 
and as Marie Therese was ill her part in the Easter cer- 
emonies fell to Madame. It was she who washed the 
feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday, a duty always 
performed by the queen, and she did it with all the grace 
and kindliness natural to her. When Easter was over 
balls and masques began. Poets made songs for her, 
everybody praised her, and when the king and queen 
left for Fontainebleau, Monsieur and Madame remained 
behind at the Tuileries for some weeks longer. Yet, 
much as she loved amusement and flattery, Madame was 
far too clever to be content with the diversions which 
satisfied most of the people about her. The friends 



HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 155 

whom she gathered round her in the gardens of the Tui- 
leries or in the shady avenues of the Cours de la Reine 
were women who were remarkable for their talents or 
their learning, and among them was Madame's lifelong 
companion, madame de la Fayette, the friend of madame 
de Sevigne, and the duke de la Rochefoucauld, who under- 
stood Greek and Latin, and wrote novels which are still 
read. There was also mademoiselle de Tonnay-Cha- 
rente, afterwards famous as madame de Montespan, who 
kept them all laughing with her merry jests; and for 
a listener there was madame's favourite maid-of-honour, 
the lovely, gentle Louise de la Valliere, always a Httle 
apart from the rest. As the spring evenings drew in 
they would all go and sup with Monsieur, and afterwards 
there would be music, or cards, or bouts rimes, which is 
sometimes played now, or better, much better than all, 
they would pay a visit to the Theatre du Palais Royal 
and see Moliere and his company act Les Precieiises Rid- 
icules and Les Femmes Savantes. Then the courtiers 
found out that Moliere was hke nobody in the world, 
and would pay any sum that was asked to sit in one of the 
chairs, which, after the strange fashion of the time, were 
placed upon the stage itself. We are not told how Mon- 
sieur enjoyed this kind of hfe. His good looks were 
perhaps the best part of him; he had been taught nothing 
from books, and was not, like his brother, quick enough 
to pick things up from other people. He was very jealous 
too, and could not bear his wife to speak to any other 
man, so most probably he was delighted to leave Paris 
in the end of May for his palace of St. Cloud, with its 
yew hedges clipped in all sorts of odd shapes, its grassy 
terraces, clear brooks, and its wide view over the Seine 
valley. But soon there came a letter from the king, 
and then the great coach and its eight horses drove up to 
the door, and Monsieur and Madame were on the road 
to Fontainebleau. 

Well whatever Monsieur might do, there was no doubt 



156 HENRIETTE THE SIEGE BABY 

which Madame loved best! What a fascination there 
was in the beautiful old palace, with its histories, some 
gay, some grim; and Henriette remembered as she walked 
down the gallery that it was only four years since the queen 
of Sweden's secretary had been done to death — right- 
eously, as some said, in that very place. Still, one need 
not be always going down that gallery, and how graceful 
was the carving of the great front, and how attractive 
were the old trees of the forest, with tales of the Gros Veneur 
and his yapping dogs, which at nightfall haunted its glades. 
However, these things were forgotten in the morning 
when the sun shone bright and the coaches were ready 
to carry Madame and her ladies down to the river, where 
they played Hke children in the water, riding home on 
horseback as the sun grew lower, only to go out upon the 
lake after supper and Hsten to the music that came softly 
to them from a distant boat. It was a summer always 
to be remembered in Madame's life — indeed, it was the 
only one worth remembering. She had many troubles, 
partly, no doubt, of her own making. Her quarrels with 
her husband became more and more frequent, and the 
queen-mother, Anne of Austria, who had always loved 
her, was deeply grieved at her passion for pleasure and 
her refusal to take heed to the counsels given her. Perhaps 
they were all rather hard upon her, for she was still very 
young, only twenty-six, when one hot day at the end of 
June, she caught a sudden chill and in a few hours she 
lay dead. Unlike her brother Charles II. she was not 
'an unconscionable time dying.' 



THE RED ROSE 

'From the time I was five years old I was either a fugitive 
or held a captive in prison.' 

Most likely we should guess for a long while before 
we hit upon the person who said those words. Was it 
Richard, duke of Normandy, we might ask, carried out 
of Laon in a bundle of hay? Was it prince Arthur, 
escaping from the clutches of his uncle John? Was it 
Charles I.'s little daughter Henriette, who owed her life, 
as a baby, to the courage of one of her mother's ladies? 
No; it was none of these children whose adventures have 
thrilled us with sorrow and excitement; it was a man 
who has seemed to us all about as dull as a king could 
be. It was Henry VII. His birthday was on June 26, 
1456, exactly 453 years ago, and as soon as he was old 
enough to be christened he was named Henry, after the 
king, his uncle. The Wars of the Roses were raging 
fiercely over England, but it was easy to forget them in 
any place so far out of the world as Pembroke castle, and 
the baby Henry must have felt hke a doll to his mother, 
Margaret Beaufort, countess of Richmond, who was only 
thirteen years older than himself. However, in a Httle 
while, the doll ceased to be merely a plaything, and be- 
came a person of real importance, for the death of his 
father, when he was five months old, made him the head 
of the great Lancastrian house of Somerset. Perhaps, 
before we go any further in the story of Henry's child- 
hood, it might be as well to say that at that time England 
was split up into two parties, each of which claimed the 
throne. Both were descended from Edward III., and 

157 



158 THE RED ROSE 

in these days probably no one would hesitate as to which 
of the two had the better right. But then men's minds 
were divided, and some supported Richard, duke of York, 
father of the future Edward IV., and others, Henry VI., 
the reigning king. The old story tells how a band of 
young men were one morning disputing in the Temple 
gardens, on the banks of the Thames, as to which side 
could best claim their allegiance. Words ran high, and 
threatened to turn to blows, when a young knight pas- 
sionately plucked a white rose from a bush and stuck it 
in his hat, commanding all who swore fealty to the 
duke of York to do likewise, while the youth who 
had heretofore been his friend and comrade sprang 
forward and tore a red rose from its stalk and, 
waving it above his head, called on those who did 
homage to Henry of Lancaster to take as their badge 
the red rose. And thus the strife which laid waste 
England for so many years became known as the Wars 
of the Roses. 

Now the countess of Richmond knew very well that, 
in spite of the danger of bringing the boy forward, and, 
indeed, in spite of the perils which beset travellers when 
bands of armed and lawless men were roaming over the 
country, it would be very unwise to keep him hidden in 
Wales till his existence was forgotten by everyone. So, 
when he was about three years old, and strong enough to 
bear the bad food and the jolting over rough roads and 
rougher hills, she set out with a few ladies, and a troop 
of trusty guards, to the place where Henry VI. was hold- 
ing his court. The king was pleased to welcome his 
sister-in-law and his nephew. Friendly faces were not 
always plentiful, and the fierce energy of his wife, queen 
Margaret, had often hindered rather than helped his 
cause. With the countess of Richmond he had many 
tastes in common; both loved books, and would spend 
many hours poring over the pictured scrolls of the monks, 
and although she had been married so young, and was 







FOR YORK^ 



THE RED ROSE 159 

even now but seventeen, Margaret had the name of being 
the most learned as well as the best lady in the whole of 
England. So the travellers were given hearty welcome, 
and wine and a great pasty were set before the little boy 
and his mother, instead of the milk, and bread and jam 
that he would have had in these days. That night he 
was so sleepy that he quite forgot he was hungry, and 
he was soon carried off by his nurses to be laid in a carved 
wooden cradle by the side of the wide hearth; but the next 
morning he was dressed in a crimson velvet robe, his 
hair .combed till it shone like silk, and with his little 
cap in his hand he was led by his mother into the 
presence of the king. Henry sank on his knees on enter- 
ing the room, as he had been bidden, but the king smiled 
and held out his hand, and the child got up at once 
and trotted across the floor, and leaned against his uncle's 
knee. 

'A pretty boy, a pretty boy,' said the king, softly strok- 
ing his hair; 'may his life be a wise and good one, and 
happy withal!' And then he added, with a sigh, 'In 
peace will he wear the garland for which we so sinfully 
contend.' 

Margaret Beaufort started in surprise as she heard 
the words. Edward, prince of Wales, was only three 
years older than the little earl of Richmond, and surely 
the 'garland' could belong to him and to no other? But 
before she had time to speak, even if she had the cour- 
age to do so, an audience was solicited by one of the king's 
officers, and, bowing low, she led away her son. This 
moment of pleasure soon came to an end. Attempts 
were made by the Yorkists to get the young earl into their 
power, and with many tears his mother was forced to 
part from him, and to send him back to the castle of Pem- 
broke, under the care of his uncle, Jasper Tudor, who 
shortly after was summoned to his post in the royal army, 
and fled to hide himself after the disastrous defeat of Mor- 
timer's Cross. Instantly a body of troops, under com- 



160 THE RED ROSE 

mand of the Yorkist, William Herbert, marched to Pem- 
broke, and after much hard fighting took the castle by 
assault. When Herbert entered to take possession he 
found the little boy, not yet five, in a room of the keep 
guarded by his attendant, PhiHp ap Hoel, who stood 
before him with his sword drawn. 

'Fear naught,' said Herbert, 'I am no slayer of chil- 
dren! the boy is safe with me.' 

Henry did not understand the words, for during these 
long months he had spoken nothing save Welsh to the 
men who attended on him; but he could even then read 
faces, and he came boldly out from behind his defender. 
'I will take you to my lady,' said Herbert; 'she is well- 
skilled in babes.' And swinging the child on his shoulder, 
he carried him to the tent where his wife awaited the news 
of the combat. 'A new nursHng for thee,' he said, with 
a smile, setting the boy on her knee; and Henry stayed 
there, well content to have a mother again. 

For nine years Henry, though still a prisoner, if he had 
had time to remember it, was as happy as a child could 
be. He had many of his own playfellows amongst lady 
Herbert's children, and on fine days they might all have 
been seen on the green of Pembroke castle throwing small 
quoits, or martiaicx, as they were then called, or trying 
who could win at closheys, or ivory ninepins. If it was 
wet, as very often happened, then any courtier or man- 
at-arms whose business took him up the narrow winding 
staircase ascended at his peril, for out of some dark cor- 
ner there was certain to spring upon him one of the boys 
and girls moving stealthily about in a game of hide and 
seek. When they were quite tired with running about, 
they would seek lady Herbert's own room, and beg her 
to help them at some new game with picture cards, or to 
show them how to move one spillikin without shaking 
the rest. Those were pleasant times, and Henry never 
forgot them; nor did he forget the best loved of all the 



THE RED ROSE 



161 



children there, lady Maud, who afterwards became the 
wife of the earl of Northumberland, and lady Kathe- 
rine, to whom, many years later, he proposed marriage 
himself. 




Herbert 'brriTiss little }\Q.x\ry to "his uife's tent 



But when the earl of Richmond had reached the age 
of fourteen this happy state of things came to an end. 
One day the children, rushing hastily into lady Herbert's 
12 



162 THE RED ROSE 

bower, found her in tears, with a letter, tied by a piece of 
silken cord, lying beside her. They all crowded round 
her, stroking her hands, patting her cheeks, asking twenty 
questions, and all talking at once, till at length she found 
voice to tell them that their father, now earl of Pembroke, 
had been taken prisoner with his brother, after the battle 
of Banbury, and had been treacherously beheaded. 'You 
are all I have left,' she cried; and the boys and girls looked 
at each other, grief-stricken, but not knowing how to 
speak words of comfort. During a short time Henry 
remained at Pembroke with the Herberts, but soon after 
the king obtained an important victory, and Jasper Tudor, 
uncle of the boy, returned to Pembroke. Then lady 
Herbert refused to stay longer within the walls of the 
castle, and departed with her children to rejoin her own 
friends. Bhnded with tears, which he was too proud 
to show% Henry watched their departure from the bat- 
tlements of the castle, and when they were out of sight 
turned sadly to take counsel with his uncle Jasper as to 
what had best be done to repair the defences, and 
how to put the castle in a condition to bear a state 
of siege. 

'We cannot tell who may gain the upper hand from 
one moment to another,' said Jasper; and Henry, nephew 
though he was to the king, hardly knew on which side 
his sympathies lay. The siege, which had been foreseen 
by Jasper Tudor, began; but, thanks to the preparations 
that had been made, every assault was repelled success- 
fully. At last, one night information was brought 
secretly to Jasper that a plot had been contrived by one 
Roger Vaughan to seize or to kill both uncle and nephew. 
Luckily it was not too late to act. With the help of 
some of his own soldiers Jasper contrived to capture 
Roger Vaughan, instantly beheaded him, and then, by 
help of the besieging general, who refused to see or 
hear what was going on, he and his nephew stole out at 
midnight through a postern door and hastened to Tenby. 



THE RED ROSE 163 

From this place they found a ship which under- 
took to convey them and their few followers to France, 
where they were kindly received by Francis II., duke of 
Brittany. 

Just at first Edward, duke of York, now known as Ed- 
ward IV., was too busy with affairs at home to interfere 
much with them. But when he considered that his 
throne was secure, he sent messengers to Brittany laden 
with promises of rewards of all sorts, provided that Henry 
and his uncle were delivered up to him. However, by this 
the duke perceived, w^iat he had hardly realised before, 
that his captives were too valuable to be lightly parted 
with, and declined to accept Edward's proposals, though 
he promised that, instead of the freedom they had hitherto 
enjoyed, his prisoners should now be confined apart, and 
a strict watch set on them. With this answer Edward 
at first seemed satisfied. The claws of the young lion 
were for the moment cut, and the king had more 
pressing business to attend to. So five years slipped by, 
and Henry spent many of the hours that hung heavily 
on his hands in studying Latin, and most likely in reading 
some of the old romances of Arthur and his knights, which 
have their root in Brittany. EngHsh he never heard 
spoken, and not often real French; but he loved the Breton 
tongue, which bore so strong a resemblance to his na- 
tive Welsh, and could talk it easily to the end of his 
life. 

In this way Henry reached his twentieth year before 
any further attempt was made by Edward to get him into 
his power. Then the bishop of Bath, Stillington, who 
shrunk from no employment where money was to be made, 
arrived at St. Malo, and sent a message to the duke, say- 
ing that the king desired all strife between the Houses 
of York and Lancaster to cease, and to this end he was 
prepared to give his daughter Elizabeth in marriage to 
the young earl of Richmond, and to restore to Jasper Tudor 



164 THE RED ROSE 

the earldom of Pembroke. Fair words; but the ambas- 
sadors had secret orders to buy the consent of Francis 
II. at his own price, the money only to be paid on the 
dehvery of the captives. The duke agreed to everything; 
he had, so he told the envoys, 'no scruple or doubt in the 
matter'; but, all the same, after the gold was safe in his 
hands he contrived to convey a warning to Henry not 
to trust himself on board the ship. Unluckily for the 
Yorkists, the wind blew from a contrary quarter, and 
delayed their departure, and a severe attack of low fever 
and ague confined Henry to his bed. His uncle, how- 
ever, guessed the danger he ran, as indeed did Henry him- 
self, though he felt almost too ill to care what happened 
to him. Things were in this state when, by some means 
or other, the story of the bargain made by the duke reached 
the ears of Jean Chevlet, a great Breton noble. Know^- 
ing that any moment a change of wind might cost the lives 
of Henry and his uncle, he bade his swiftest horses to be 
saddled, and rode at full speed to the court. Without 
stopping to ask for an audience he strode into the pres- 
ence of Francis, and pausing before him looked silently 
and steadily into his eyes. The duke reddened, and 
moved uneasily in his great carved chair, and at last in- 
quired if anything had happened that the lord Chevlet 
should come to him in this wise. 

'If anything has happened yet, I know not,' answered 
Chevlet sternly; 'but happen it will, and that speedily, un- 
less it is hindered by those with more truth and honour 
in their souls than the lord duke. Rather would I have 
died in battle than see my sovereign a traitor.' 

Again there was silence. Francis would gladly have 
sprung to his feet and struck him dead for his insolence, 
but something held him back; Chevlet's words were true, 
and his conscience bore witness to it. At length he plucked 
up a little courage, and stammered out that all would be 
well, as Henry was to wed the king's daughter and heir- 
ess of England. 



THE RED ROSE 165 

'Else would I not have parted from him,' added he. 
But Chevlet did not deign to even notice his excuses. 

'Let him leave Brittany by a foot, and no mortal crea- 
ture can save him from death,' was all he said. 'You 
have thrown him into the jaws' of the lion, and you must 
dehver him from them.' 

'But how?' asked the duke, who, now that his treach- 
ery was so plainly set before him, felt both shame and 
repentance. 'Counsel me what to do, and I will 
do it.' 

Then Chevlet's voice softened a little, though the 
light of contempt still remained in his eyes, and he 
bade the duke send Pierre Landois, his treasurer, 
in all haste to St. Malo, to bring back the English- 
men at all hazards: by fair means if he could, by 
force if need be. Right gladly did Landois undertake 
the task. 

'He did not slug nor dream his business,' says the chron- 
icler, but on his arrival at St. Malo sought at once an in- 
terview with the bishop, and by some pretext which he 
had invented managed again to hinder the saihng of the 
vessel, as the wind showed signs of veering to a favourable 
quarter. That night, while the treasurer was deeply 
engaged in conferring with the envoys, a little proces- 
sion stole through the narrow streets of the towns. It 
consisted of a htter with a sick youth in it, carried on 
the shoulders of four stout men, with a tall grey-haired 
man walking at their head. Noiselessly they passed 
along, creeping ever in the shadow, stopping every now 
and then in some doorway darker than the rest to make 
certain that no one was following them. At last they 
reached their goal, the Sanctuary of St. Malo; and here 
not even the emperor himself had power to touch 
Henry. He was safe under the protection of the Church. 
Early next morning the captain of the vessel sent 
a sailor to inform the bishop that the ship could 
put to sea in an hour's time, and at the same moment 



166 THE RED ROSE 

arrived a messenger wearing the livery of the duke of 
Brittany. 

'My master, Pierre Landois, the grand treasurer, bade 
me tell you that your bird has flown,' said he; 'and he 
wishes you a safe voyage,' he added, turning to the door, 
where his horse aw^aited him. 

The bishop did not ask questions; perhaps he thought 
the less time w^asted the better. 'We will come on board 
at once, so that the wind may not shift again,' he answered 
the sailor somewhat hastily; and by noon even the white 
sails had vanished from sight. 

Henry remained in the sanctuary till the fever left 
him, when he returned to the castle of Elvin, which he 
very seldom left. In a few months events happened 
which greatly changed his position. Edward IV. died, 
his sons were murdered in the Tower, and the murderer 
sat on the throne as Richard III. But fierce indignation 
and horror seized on the people of the southern part of 
England, and numerous plots were hatched to dispossess 
the usurper and to crown Henry king, with Ehzabeth 
of York for his wife. For Edward, prince of Wales, the 
son of Henry VI., had been long dead, having been 
stabbed on the field of Tewkesbury by the duke of 
Clarence. One of these plots, concocted by Henry's 
mother and the duke of Buckingham, seemed so prom- 
ising that the duke of Brittany agreed to furnish 
the earl of Richmond with money and ships; but when 
they put to sea a gale came on, which dispersed the 
whole fleet. Next morning Henry found himself, with 
only two vessels, before Poole in Dorset, and noticed with 
dismay that the shore was strongly guarded by men-of- 
war. 

'Can the conspiracy have been discovered?' thought 
he. And, alas! the conspiracy had been discovered, or, 
rather, betrayed to Richard, and the duke of Buckingham 
was lying dead. But though Henry had no means of 



THE RED ROSE 167 

knowing the truth, experience had taught him caution, 
and he despatched a small boat, with orders to find out 
whether the ships were friends or foes. 'Friends,' was 
the answer; but Henry still misdoubted, and as soon as 
it was dark he put about his helm and returned to 
Brittany. 

Feehng quite sure that Richard would never cease from 
striving to get him into his power, Henry took leave of 
duke Francis, and sought refuge with Charles VIII., then 
king of France. In Paris he found many Englishmen, 
who had either fled from England during the troubles, 
or 'to learn and study good literature and virtuous doc- 
trine,' as the chronicler tells us. So, for the first time in 
his life, Henry was surrounded by his own countrymen, 
and they did homage to him and swore to sail with him 
to England in the ships that the regent, Charles's sister, 
had promised him; while the earl on his side took an oath 
to do all that in him lay for the peace of the kingdom by 
marrying Elizabeth of York. 

It was on August i that Henry and his uncle 
sailed from Harfleur, and some days later they reached 
Milford Haven. But somehow or other the news of 
their coming had flown before them, and a large crowd 
had assembled to greet them, and the air rang with shouts 
of joy. 

'Thou hast taken good care of thy nephew,' they said 
grimly to Jasper, in the famiHar Welsh tongue; for it was 
only the people of the North who still clave to Richard 
the murderer. But Henry did not hnger amongst them, 
and gathering more men as he went, marched, by way of 
Shrewsbury and Tamworth, to Leicester. The weather 
was fine, and they made swift progress, and on the 20th 
of August, Henry left his camp secretly, and went to meet 
lord Stanley, his mother's husband, on Atherstone Moor. 
Their talk lasted long, and, much to Henry's disappoint- 
ment, Stanley declared that until the battle which was 
pending was actually in progress, he would be unable to 



168 THE RED ROSE 

throw in his lot with the Lancastrians, as his son remained 
as a hostage in the hands of Richard. Henry spent a 
long while in trying to convince him how necessary was 
his support; but it was quite useless, and at last he gave 
it up, and, taking leave of each other, they set out for 
their own camps. By this time it was quite dark, and 
as the country was unknown to Henry he soon found him- 
self at a standstill. Richard's scouts lay all about him, 
and he dared not even ask his way, lest his French accent 
should betray him. For hours he wandered, looking 
anxiously for some sign that he was on the right road. At 
length, driven desperate by fatigue and hunger, he knocked 
at the door of a small hut, against which he had stumbled 
by accident. It was opened by an old shepherd, who, 
without waiting to ask questions, drew him to a bench 
and set food before him. When he was able to speak, 
Henry briefly said that he was a stranger who had lost 
himself on the moor, and begged to be guided back to the 
Lancastrian camp. 

'If I Hve, I will reward you for it some day,' he said; 
and the old man answered, 'I need no reward for such a 
small service.' 

When at last the camp was reached the earl was re- 
ceived with joy by his men, who had given up hope, and 
felt certain that he must have been taken prisoner; but 
little rest did he get, as preparations for the coming battle 
had to be made. It was on August 21 that the armies 
met on the field of Bosworth, and though Henry's force 
numbered far fewer men than Richard's, the desertion 
of the Stanleys and their followers won him the day. Among 
all the Yorkists none fought harder than Richard him- 
self; but in a desperate charge to reach the standard by 
which Henry stood he was borne down and slain. When 
the fight was over, and his body sought for, it was found 
stripped of all its armour, while the crown, which he had worn 
all day, had been hastily hidden in a hawthorn tree hard by. 



THE RED ROSE 171 

'Wear nobly what you have earned fairly/ said Stanley, 
placing the golden circlet on Henry's head, and then bent 
his knees to do him homage. And on the battlefield itself 
the army drew up in line and sang a Te Deum. 



THE WHITE ROSE 

In a corner of Westminster, adjoining both the Abbey 
and the house and garden belonging to the Abbot, there 
stood in the fifteenth century a fortress founded four hun- 
dred years before by Edward the Confessor. It was 
immensely strong, and could, if needed, withstand the 
assaults of an army, for it was intended as a harbour of 
refuge for runaways, and was known by the name of the 
sanctuary. Once there, a man was safe whatever his 
crime, for the Church protected him: the sanctuary was 
a Holy Place. But for a long while the townspeople of 
London had suffered much from the right of sanctuary 
thus given to all without distinction. The fortress had 
become the home of thieves and murderers, who would 
break into their neighbour's house and steal his goods, or 
knock a man on the head for the sake of an old grudge 
or a well-filled purse, sure that, if he were only nimble 
enough, no one could touch him. 'Men's wives run 
thither with their husbands' plate,' writes the duke of 
Buckingham, 'and say they dare not abide with their 
husbands for beating. These bring thither their stolen 
goods, and there live thereon. There they devise new 
robberies; nightly they steal out, they rob and kill, and 
come in again as though those places gave them not only 
a safeguard for the harm they have done, but a license 
also to do more.' Most true; yet the sanctuary was some- 
times put to other uses, and to those intended by the Church 
when the great fortress was built. It was a refuge for 
innocent people who were suspected wrongfully of crimes 
which they had never committed, and kept them safe 

172 



THE WHITE ROSE 173 

from hasty vengeance, till the matter could be tried in a 
court of law. 

Late one evening, however, in the autumn of 1470 the 
gates of the sanctuary opened to admit a party of fugi- 
tives of a very different kind from those who generally 
sought its shelter. It consisted of a lady nearly forty 
years of age, her mother, her three httle girls, and a gentle- 
woman, and their faces bore the look of hurry and fear 
common to all who entered there. When asked their 
names by the officer whose duty it was to keep a Hst of 
those who claimed the sanctuary, the younger lady hesitated 
for a moment, and then threw back her hood and looked 
straight at him. 

'The queen!' cried he; and the lady answered hur- 
riedly: 

'Yes, the queen, and her mother and her children. The 
Tower was no longer safe, so we have come here.' 

The officer gazed at her in dismay. Owing to the 
late disturbances in the city, and the flight of Edward IV. 
to France, things had come to such a pass that no man 
dared trust his fellow, and when the king's brother was 
seeking to obtain possession of the king's wife, who could 
tell if the sanctuary itself would be held sa,cred? And 
even if the enemies of the king — and they were many 
and powerful — dared not bring down on their heads the 
wrath of the Church by openly forcing their way into 
the refuge she had granted — well, there were other means 
of getting the fugitives into their hands, and none could 
prevent them posting soldiers outside and hindering any 
food from passing in. Such were the thoughts that flashed 
through the man's mind as the queen spoke; but he only 
bowed low, and begged that they would follow him. Tak- 
ing down a torch from the wall he lit it at the fire, and 
went before them down a gloomy passage, at the end of 
which he unlocked the door of a good-sized room, almost 
bare of furniture, and lighted only by one or two narrow 



174 THE WHITE ROSE 

windows, through which a ray of moonlight fell on the 
floor. 

'This is all I can do for to-night, madam,' he said; 'but 

to-morrow ' And the queen broke in hastily: 'Oh, 

yes, yes, we are safe at last. Never mind to-morrow.' 

When the officer had left them, lady Scrope came for- 
ward. 

'Madam, rest you here, I pray you, and get some sleep, 
or you will be ill,' she whispered softly. 'See, I will put 
these cloaks in this corner, and wrap you in them, and 
the children shall lie beside you and keep you warm.' 
And with tender hands she forced her mistress to lay her- 
self down, while the old duchess of Bedford held Httle 
princess Cicely in her arms. The two elder children 
stood by her side watching gravely, as well as their sleepy 
eyes would allow. 

The princess EHzabeth was at this time about four 
and a half, and her sister Mary a year younger. Eliza- 
beth had long yellow hair like her mother, and the beauti- 
ful white skin for which the queen was famous, while 
she had her father's quick wit and high courage. Of 
all his children she was the one he loved the best, and 
already she. had made her appearance on many public 
occasions, bearing herself seriously, as a little girl should 
whose velvet frock has a long train, and who wears on 
her head a high sloping head-dress shaped like an extin- 
guisher, with a transparent white veil floating from it. 
Still, children will play, however long their frocks may 
be, and in the lovely gardens of the palace of Shene, where 
Elizabeth and her sisters had Hved till only a few weeks 
before, they ran and tumbled about and rolled in the grass 
as freely and happily as if their dresses had stopped at 
the knee. But there was little play for them during 
that dreary winter that they passed in the sanctuary. As 
the officer had feared, the duke of Clarence, their uncle, 
and the great earl of Warwick, his father-in-law, sur- 



THE WHITE ROSE 175 

rounded the place, hoping to starve the prisoners into 
surrender. Once in their power, the two conspirators 
beHeved that the king would be forced to accept whatever 
terms they might choose to dictate. But, luckily for the 
queen, a friendly butcher took pity on her sad plight, and 
every week contrived by a secret way to carry 'half a beef 
and two muttons,' into the sanctuary, and on this food, 
and the water from a spring in the vaults, the royal cap- 
tives lived, sharing their scanty supply with the men who 
were always in charge of the place. 

It was in this dismal fortress that Edward V. was born 
on November i, 1470. He was small and thin, but his 
Httle sisters were dehghted to have him, and would kneel 
by Lady Scrope's side, and play with his hands, and 
watch his tiny toes closing and unclosing. Sometimes, 
when he was asleep in his mother's arms, lady Scrope 
would tell them stories of babies wdth fairy godmothers, 
and of the gifts they brought; and then Elizabeth would 
guess what the fairies might have in store for little Ed- 
ward. And what excitement there was at his christening 
in the Abbey, which, as it formed part of the sanc- 
tuary, was sacred ground, even though his only godfather 
was the lord abbot, and his godmothers the duchess of 
Bedford and lady Scrope. The ceremony was hurried 
over because, in sanctuary though they were, there was 
no knowing what might happen; but Elizabeth looked 
with awe at the high arches and the tombs of the kings, 
never thinking that she herself would be married before 
the altar, or be buried in a chapel there that was still 
unbuilt. 

One fine morning, early in March 1471, the children 
came in from a short walk in the abbot's garden, under 
the care of lady Scrope. They found their mother 
pacing impatiently down the dark corridor, smiling at them 
as she used to do in the happy days before they were hur- 
ried away from Shene. 

'Your father is back again,' she cried; 'the men of 



176 THE WHITE ROSE 

the North have flocked round him, and now all will be 
well.' 

'Then we shall soon be able to leave the sanctuary and 
go on the river once more!' said httle Elizabeth, who had 
kept her fifth birthday on February ii. 

'Yes, yes; and how proud he will be of his son!' ex- 
claimed the queen. And the day was spent in joyful plans 
for the future. 

Some weeks, however, passed by before they either saw 
king Edward or were able to quit their gloomy dweUing. 
At last the city of London, w^hich had hitherto hung back, 
openly declared itself on his side, and yielded up the 
Tower in which king Henry VI. was a prisoner. Then 
Edward hastened to Westminster Abbey, and after giv- 
ing thanks for his victory before the altar dedicated to 
Edward the Confessor, he crossed over to the sanctuary, 
where, 'to his heart's singular comfort and gladness,' he 
at last beheld his wife and children. 

'You are the first king who has ever entered sanctuary,' 
said Ehzabeth, as she sat on her father's knee. And Ed- 
ward laughed, and answered that he hoped it was the last 
time he might ever see it, though it had proved a good 
friend to them during all the past winter. 

After a few hard-fought battles, England accepted Ed- 
w^ard as its king, and until his death, thirteen years after, 
the royal children had no more hardships to suffer. They 
lived in rooms of their own in the palace of Westminster, 
and had carpets on the floors, and tapestry on the walls 
and beds of down to lie on. For Edward loved every- 
thing rich and beautiful, and thought nothing too good 
for his children. He did not forget John Gould, the 
butcher, who had saved them from starvation, but rewarded 
him handsomely for the many 'half beeves and muttons' 
they had eaten in those dreary six months. 

Elizabeth's wish had come to pass, and a splendid barge, 
with eight men to row it, aU gaily dressed in fine scarlet 



THE WHITE ROSE 111 

cloth, was moored at the foot of the steps at Westminster. 
Here, when the tide was high, the princesses and lady 
Scrope used to go on board, and be rowed down to Rich- 
mond, which they loved. Or on wet days, when the mist 
hung thickly about the river, they would gather round lady 
Scrope, in the queen's withdrawing-room, while she showed 
them how to play 'closheys,' a kind of ninepins, or scatter 
spiUikins on a table for the elder children with serious, 
intent faces, to remove one by one without shaking the 
rest. 

'Elizabeth, EHzabeth! where are you?' cried princess 
Mary one afternoon, when the rain was pouring down so 
heavily that you could not see that there was a river at 
all. 'My lady Scrope has some new toys, and will teach 
us a fresh game. It is called maritaux, and the boys 
play it, and I want to learn it. Be quick, be quick! where 
are you?' 

But no Elizabeth came running eagerly to throw the 
little quoits. Unperceived by her nurse, she had stolen 
away to that part of the palace where she knew she would 
find her father, and, creeping softly to the table in front 
of which he was sitting, she knelt down beside him to ask 
for his blessing, as the queen had always bidden her. He 
lifted her on to his knee, and she saw that the open book 
before him contained strange figures and circles, and that 
the paper beside it which the king had written was cov- 
ered with more of these odd marks. 

' What does it mean ? and why do you look like that ? ' 
she asked, half frightened. King Edward did not answer, 
but, catching up the paper, carried her to a high window, 
where he set her down in the seat formed by the thick- 
ness of the wall. Glancing round, to make sure that 
none of the men-at-arms who guarded the door could 
hear him, he bade her hide the paper carefully and keep 
it always, for it was a map of her destiny which he had 
cast from the stars, and that they had told him that it 
was she who would one day wear the EngHsh crown. ' But 
13 



178 



THE WHITE ROSE 



my brother — but the prince of Wales ? ' — asked Eliza- 
beth, who had heard much talk of the baby being heir 
to the throne. 




'I know not,' he answered sadly; 'but so it is written. 
Now go back to the queen, and mind, say nought of this, 
or it will grieve her sorely.' 



THE WHITE ROSE 179 

So Elizabeth returned slowly to her own rooms, feeling 
half afraid and half important with the burden of the secret 
entrusted to her. She put the paper away in a little box, 
whose bottom would lift out, given her by her father on 
her fourth birthday — quite a long time ago ! Here she 
kept all her treasures: a saint's figure, which was a most 
holy reHc, though she could not have told you much about 
the saint; a lock of hair of her spaniel, which had died 
at Shene more than a year ago, and the first cap worn 
by her little brother in the sanctuary, which she had 
begged from lady Scrope as a remembrance. Then she 
climbed on to the settle by the fire to place the box on 
the high mantelshelf, and went to see what her sister was 
doing. In five minutes she had quite forgotten all that 
had happened in the absorbing adventures of Beauty and 
the Beast. 

Not long after this the court removed, in litters and 
on horseback and in strange, long vehicles that looked 
rather like railway carriages, down to Windsor, in order 
to give a splendid welcome to the lord of Grauthuse, Louis 
of Bruges, governor of Holland, in place of his master 
the duke of Burgundy. And a great reception was no 
more than his due, in return for his kindness to Edward 
when he had entered Holland as a fugitive two years be- 
fore, having sold his long fur-lined coat to pay his pas- 
sage. Grauthuse has himself left a record of his visit 
and the gorgeous decorations that everywhere charmed 
his eye at Windsor, and the beauty of the cloth-of-gold 
hangings, and the counterpane, edged with ermine, on 
his bed, while his sheets had come from Rennes, in Brit- 
tany, and his curtains were of white silk. He seems to 
have been given supper as soon as he arrived, in his own 
apartments, and when he had finished he was escorted 
by Edward to the queen's withdrawing-room, where she 
and her ladies were playing games of one kind and an- 
other — some at closheys of ivory, some at martiaux, 



180 THE WHITE ROSE 

some again at cards. They all stopped at the entrance 
of the king and his guest, and made deep curtseys; but 
very soon Edward proposed they should go into the ball- 
room, where a ball- was to be held. It was opened by 
Edward and princess Elizabeth, who danced as solemnly 
as it was possible for a maiden of six to do. She was 
allowed one more partner, her uncle the duke of Bucking- 
ham, who had married her mother's sister. Then, mak- 
ing her obeisance to her father and mother, to the guest 
and to the ladies, she went off to bed. 

The following morning the prince of Wales, who was 
a year and a half old, was lifted up by the lord chamber- 
lain, Sir Richard Vaughan, to play his part of welcome to 
his father's friend; then followed a great dinner, and later 
a banquet, at which the whole court was present. At 
nine o'clock the lord of Grauthuse went, attended by 
lord Hastings, to one of the rooms prepared for him by 
the queen, in which were two baths, with a tent of white 
cloth erected over each. When they came out they ate 
a light supper of green ginger, and sweet dishes, washed 
down by a sort of ale called hippocras, and after that they 
went to bed. Grauthuse seems to have stayed some time 
in England, for he returned w^ith the king and queen to 
Westminster, and was created earl of Winchester at a 
splendid ceremony held in the presence of both Lords and 
Commons. Here the Speaker, William AHngton by name, 
publicly thanked him for 'the great kindness and hu- 
manity shown to the king in Holland,' and praised 'the 
womanly behaviour and constancy of the queen,' while 
her husband was beyond the sea. 

Then, highly pleased with his visit, Grauthuse took 
his leave, bearing with him as a gift from the king a beauti- 
ful golden cup inlaid with pearls, having a huge sapphire 
set in the Hd. 

For the next three years we hear nothing special about 
the life of the little princesses. Another brother was 



THE WHITE ROSE Igj 

born to them, and given the name and title of his grand- 
father Richard duke of York, and there was also a fourth 
daughter, princess Anne, eight years younger than Eliz- 
abeth. The following year, peace being restored at 
home, Edward IV. grew restless at having no fighting to 
do, and crossed over to France to try to see if there was 
any chance of regaining some of the former possessions 
held by the English. But before quitting the country 
he made a will leaving his two eldest girls 10,000 marks 
each, which, however, they were to lose if they married 
without the consent of their mother. Edward IV. was 
a clever man, especially in anything that concerned the 
trade of the nation; but in Louis XL, then king of France, 
he met more than his match. It did not suit Louis to 
have a war with England just then, for he was already 
fighting his powerful neighbour, Charles the Bold, duke 
of Burgundy, so he amused Edward by offering to do 
homage to him for the immense provinces to which the 
English king laid claim, and to pay tribute for them. Be- 
sides, he agreed to betrothe his son Charles to the princess 
Elizabeth, and likewise consented that part of the tribute 
money should be set aside for her. 

Although she was only now nine years old, this was 
the fourth time at least that Elizabeth had been offered in 
marriage. She was scarcely three w^hen Edward, then 
a prisoner in the hands of the earl of Warwick, proposed 
an alliance between her and George Neville, Warwick's 
nephew. The scheme was eagerly accepted by the earl 
and his two rich and powerful brothers; but Edward con- 
trived to make his escape, and, to the great wrath of all the 
Nevilles, nothing further was said on the subject. Indeed, 
a few months after, a still greater insult was offered to the 
family by the reckless Edward, for he tried to break off 
the marriage between Edward prince of Wales, son of 
Henry VI., and Warwick's young daughter. Lady Anne, 
by proposing that Elizabeth should take the bride's place. 
But Margaret of Anjou, the bridegroom's mother, though 



182 THE WHITE ROSE 

hating Warwick almost as much as she did her husband's 
enemy Edward, at length gave her consent to the betrothal, 
and the wedding was celebrated in the castle of Amboise in 
the presence of the king of France. And in 1472 we find 
that, for the first of many times, Elizabeth's hand was 
offered to Henry of Richmond. 

All these things had happened some years before, and 
now this same king of France was begging for this same 
Elizabeth as a wife for his son! From the moment that 
the treaty was signed the young princess was always ad- 
dressed as 'Madame la dauphine.' In addition to the 
lessons in reading and writing given to her and her sisters 
during these years by 'the very best scrivener in the city,' 
Elizabeth was taught to speak and write both French 
and Spanish. By and bye the dower began to be talked 
of, and then came the important question of the trousseau. 
French dresses were ordered for her, all of the latest fashion, 
and many yards of lace wxre w^orked for her stomachers 
and hanging veils, while the goldsmiths of London vied 
with each other in drawing designs for jewelled girdles. 
Suddenly there came from over the sea a rumour that Louis 
XL had broken his word and the articles of betrothal, 
and that the bride of the little dauphin was not to be the 
princess Elizabeth, but the heiress of Burgundy and 
Flanders, Mary, daughter of Charles the Bold. This 
news struck Edward dumb wdth wrath; as for Elizabeth, 
she only felt happy at being left in England with her brothers 
and sisters, and did not in the least mind when everyone 
ceased calling her 'Madame la dauphine,' and began to 
treat her as a little girl instead of as a grown-up woman. 
She continued to be the companion of her father and mother, 
and went on with her lessons as before, though it was 
now certain that she would never be queen of France. 
After a while there was talk of another wedding in the 
family, and this time the bridegroom was the duke of 
York, Httle Richard, who was not yet five years old, while 



THE WHITE ROSE 183 

the bride, Anne Mowbray, heiress of Norfolk, was but 
three. Of course such marriages were common enough, 
as EHzabeth could have told you; but, even then, such a 
very young bridegroom was seldom seen, and his sisters 
made merry over it. 

'Fancy Richard a married man!' they would say, dan- 
cing in front of him. 'Oh, how wise he will be; we 
shall all have to ask counsel of him.' And Richard, half 
pleased with his importance and half ashamed, though 
why he did not know, bade them 'Begone,' or burst into 
tears of anger. His brother Edward, who was more 
than six, felt a httle bewildered. He was a quiet, gentle 
child, but from his birth he had been brought forward, 
yet now no one thought of anything but Richard, 
and Edward was not quite sure how he ought to 
behave. However, by the time the wedding-day came, 
a bright frosty morning in January 1477, he had grown 
used to this strange state of things, and was as excited as 
the rest. 

A large crowd was assembled before the palace door, 
for then, as now, the people loved to see a royal wedding, 
and the citizens of London liked well Edward and his 
family. Loud cheers greeted the king and his children 
as they rode across the open space on beautiful long-tailed 
horses with splendid velvet saddles. Louder still were 
the cheers that greeted the queen as she came forth, with 
the bridegroom on a pony of bright bay with light blue 
velvet trappings, ambling by her side. Loudest of all 
was the greeting given to the bride as she appeared, seated 
on the smallest white creature that ever was seen, led by 
Lord Rivers, the queen's brother. 

'It is a fair sight indeed,' murmured the women, and 
these words came back to them six years later. 

The marriage was celebrated in St. Stephen's chapel, 
and as no one ever thought in those days of heating churches, 



184 THE WHITE ROSE 

the stone walls were covered with hangings of cloth of 
gold, which made it a little warmer. The king arrived 
first, with the prince of Wales, clad in a blue velvet tunic 
bordered with ermine, on his right hand, and princess 
Elizabeth, in a long dress of silver tissue, on his left. Mary 
and Cicely walked behind, and they were followed by 
the great officers of state and the ladies of the court. After 
they had taken their places the heralds sounded their 
trumpets, and in came the queen, wearing a tight-fitting 
gown of white velvet, with an ermine mantle, her golden 
hair hanging to her feet, from under the high head-dress 
with its floating veil. She led by the hand the noble 
bridegroom, who looked shy and frightened, and stared 
straight before him, as he walked up the aisle, his face 
nearly as white as his heavy mantle which gHttered with 
diamonds. The bride, on the contrary, who was con- 
ducted by lord Rivers, seemed quite composed and looked 
about her, taking care not to trip over the skirt of her 
trailing white satin dress, whose hem shone with diamonds 
and pearls. The princesses in their seats watched her 
with approval. 

'She could not have borne herself better had her father 
been a king,' they whispered one to another. 'I would 
that Richard had carried himself as well,' added Eliza- 
beth, who, being six years older, felt something of a mother 
to him. Then the bishops and priests took their places, 
and the service began. 

Shouts of 'Long live the bride and bridegroom!' 'Health 
and happiness to the duke and duchess of York!' rent 
the air as the procession left the chapel to attend the ban- 
quet laid out in the Painted Chamber. Great pasties 
were there for those that liked them, cranes, curlews, and 
bitterns — which would have seemed very odd food to 
us, and all very difficult to eat without forks, of which 
they had none. At the top and bottom were peacocks 
with their tails spread, beautiful to behold. But what 
pleased the children best were the 'subleties,' as they 



THE WHITE ROSE 185 

were then called — sweet things built up into towers, 
and ships, and other strange shapes. And the largest 
and finest of all, a castle with a moat and draw- 
bridge, and surrounded by battlements defended by 
tiny men-at-arms, was placed in front of the bride and 
bridegroom. 

For the next five years the fives of the princesses went 
on quietly enough. Two more daughters were born, 
Katherine, in 1479, ^"^^ Bridget, who afterwards became 
a nun, in 1480. But troubles of many sorts were hard 
at hand. In 1482 Efizabeth lost her sister Mary, who 
had been her companion and playfellow all through their 
eventful childhood, and before she had recovered from 
this bitter grief the state of the king's health caused much 
alarm. Though a brave soldier and a good general, 
and capable in time of war of enduring hardships as well 
as the poorest churl who fought for him, Edward loved 
soft lying and good eating, which ended in his ruin. He 
grew indolent and fat, and his temper, which had never 
recovered the sHght put upon him by Louis XL in the 
breaking off of the dauphin's marriage, became more 
and more moody. At length a low fever came upon him, 
and he had no strength to rally. Knowing that death 
was at hand he sent for his old friends Stanley and Has- 
tings, and implored them to make peace with the queen 
and to protect his children from their enemies. The 
vows he asked were taken, but ill were they kept. 
Then the king died, acknowledging the many sins and 
crimes of which he had been guilty, and praying for 
pardon. 

During nine hours on that same day (April 9, 1483) 
the king's body, clad in purple velvet and ermine, was 
exposed to view, and the citizens of London, headed by 
the lord mayor, came sadly to look upon it, so as to bear 
witness, if need be, that it was Edward and none other 
that lay there dead. When the procession of people was 



186 THE WHITE ROSE 

finished bishops and priests took their places, and repeated 
the Psalms from beginning to end, while all through the 
hours of darkness knights clad in black watched and prayed. 
As soon as the preparations wxre completed, the dead 
king was put on board a barge draped in black, and rowed 
down to Windsor, as, for reasons that we do not know% he 
was buried in St. George's chapel, instead of at Westminster. 
It is curious that his son Edward, now thirteen, was not 
allowed to come up from Ludlow Castle, where he had 
been living for some time with lord Rivers, neither is there 
any mention of Richard attending his father's funeral. 
His stepsons were there, but not his sons, and the chief 
mourner was his nephew the earl of Lincoln. Never 
were people more helpless than the queen and her chil- 
dren. The poor queen knew not whom to trust, and 
indeed a few weeks taught her that she could trust no- 
body. Gloucester, her brother-in-law, who at first gained 
her faith with a few kind words, soon tore off the 
mask, seized the young king, and arrested his uncle lord 
Rivers. 

' Edward is a prisoner, and I cannot dehver him ! And 
what will become of us?' cried the queen, turning to her 
eldest daughter; and Elizabeth, whom these last few 
months had made a woman older than her seventeen years, 
answered briefly: 'There is still the sanctuary where we 
are safe.' 

That evening, after dark, the queen, her five daughters, 
and Richard, duke of York, stole out of the palace of 
Westminster into the shelter of the abbot's house, which 
fortunately lay within the sanctuary precincts. All night 
long the dwelling, usually so quiet, was a scene of bustle 
and confusion, for every moment servants were arriving 
from the palace at Westminster bearing with them great 
chests full of jewels, clothes, hangings, and carpets. The 
princesses, who were for the most part young children, 
were running about, excitedly ordering the arrangement 
of their own possessions, while Richard the 'married 



THE WHITE ROSE 



187 



man,' had quietly fallen asleep in a corner on a heap of 
wall-hangings that happened to have been set down there. 
So it was that the archbishop and lord chancellor, who 




arrived long after midnight to deliver up the Great Seal 
to the queen, in trust for Edward V., found her alone, 
seated on a heap of rushes in the old stone hall, 'desolate 
and dismayed,' as the chronicler tells us. The arch- 



188 THE WHITE ROSE 

bishop tried to cheer her with kind words and promises 
of a fair future, but the queen had suffered too much in 
the past to pay much heed to him. 'Desolate' she w^as 
indeed, and 'dismayed' she well might be, and in his heart 
the archbishop knew it, and he sighed as he looked at her 
hopeless face set in the tight widow's bands, while her 
hair, still long and golden in spite of her fifty years, made 
patches of brightness over her sombre black clothes. Yet 
he could not leave her without making one more effort 
to rouse her from her sad state, so again he spoke, though 
the poor woman scarcely seemed to know that he was in 
the room at all. 

'Madam, be of good comfort. If they crown any 
other king than your eldest son whom they have with 
them, we will, on the morrow, crown his brother whom 
you have with you here. And here is the Great Seal, 
which in like wise as your noble husband gave it to me, 
so I deliever it to you for the use of your son.' Having 
done his mission, the archbishop departed to his own 
house close to the Abbey. The May dawn was already 
breaking, and as he looked on the river he saw the shore 
thronged with boats full of Gloucester's men, ready to 
pounce on the queen did she but leave the sanctuary by 
a foot. 'Poor thing! poor thing!' murmured the arch- 
bishop, as he gazed, 'it is an ill Hfe she has before her. 
I doubt what will come of it.' 

Still, unhappy though they were, the royal family were 
at first far better off in the abbot's house than they had 
been thirteen years before in the fortress itself. The 
rooms were more numerous and better furnished, and 
it was summer, and the flowers in the garden wxre spring- 
ing up, and the air began to be sweet with early roses. 
Up and dow^n the green paths paced Elizabeth and her 
sister Cicely, talking over the events of the last month, 
and of all that had happened since the death of their 
father. 



THE WHITE ROSE 189 

'If only Edward were here,' said princess Cicely, 'I 
for one should dread nothing. But to think of him in 
my uncle Gloucester's power — ah! the world may well 
ask which is king and which is prince! ' 

'Yes, since Gloucester broke his promise to the coun- 
cil to have him crowned on the fourth of May my heart 
is ever fearful,' answered Ehzabeth; 'of little avail was 
it to bring him clothed in purple and ermine through the 
city when he was surrounded by none but followers of 
the Boar' — for such was the duke's device. 'I mis- 
doubt me that he will not long be left in the palace of the 
good bishop of Ely.' Then both sisters fell silent for a 
long time. 

Elizabeth had reason for what she said, for the next 
day came the tidings that Gloucester had carried his 
nephew to the Tower, there to await his coronation. 
The queen turned white and cold when the message was 
brought to her, but worse was yet to come. At a 
council held in the Star Chamber, presided over by 
Gloucester, it was decided that as children could commit 
no crime they could need no sanctuary, and that there- 
fore the duke of Gloucester, as acting regent, might 
withdraw his nephew Richard from his mother's care 
whenever he chose. A deputation of peers, headed by 
the cardinal archbishop of Canterbury waited on the 
queen to try to prevail on her to give up her boy, 
saying the king was wishful of a playfellow, but it was 
long before she would give her consent. She had no 
reason to love the lord protector, she said, who had 
ever shown himself ungrateful for all the late king had 
done for him; but at length she began to yield to the sol- 
emn assurances of the cardinal that the boy's life was 
safe. 

'Pray His Highness the duke of York to come to the 
Jerusalem Chamber ' — the words, though spoken by the 
queen, seemed to be uttered in a different voice from 



190 THE WHITE ROSE 

hers, and there was silence for some minutes till the 
white-faced, sickly boy, clothed in black velvet, walked up 
to his mother. 'Here is this gentleman,' said she, 
presenting him to the cardinal. 'I doubt not he would 
be kept safely by me if I were permitted. The desire of 
a kingdom knoweth no kindred; brothers have been 
brothers' bane, and may the nephews be sure of the 
uncle? Notwithstanding, I here dehver him, and his 
brother with- him, into your hands, and of you I shall 
ask them before God and the world. Faithful ye be, I 
wot well, and power ye have if ye list, to keep them safe, 
but if ye think I fear too much, beware ye fear not too 
httle.' So Richard bade her farewell — a farewell that 
was to be eternal. He was taken straight away to the 
Star Chamber, where Gloucester awaited him, and em- 
braced him before them all. That night they lay at 
the bishop's palace close to St. Paul's, and the next day 
he rode by his uncle's side through the city to the Tower. 

Sore were the hearts of the poor prisoners in the sanc- 
tuary, and little heed did they take of the preparations 
in the Abbey for Edward's coronation. In vain the kindly 
persons about them sought to reassure the queen and her 
daughters by dwelling on the orders given for the food at 
the royal banquet, and on the number of oxen to be roasted 
whole in the space before the palace. 

'Banquet there may be, and coronation there may 
be,' was all the queen would answer; 'but Richard will 
never eat of that food, and Edward will never wear that 
crown.' 

Blow after blow fell thick and fast. Everything that 
Gloucester could invent to throw discredit on the queen 
and her family was heaped upon her, and as Clarence had 
not feared to blot his mother's fair fame, so Gloucester 
did not hesitate to cast mud on that of his brother Ed- 
ward's wife. Then, one day, the abbot sought an audi- 
ence of the princess Elizabeth. 

'Madame, I dare not tell the queen,' said he, staring 



THE WHITE ROSE 



191 



at the ground as he spoke. ' But — but — the king has 
been deposed, and the lord protector declared king in his 
stead!' 

Elizabeth bowed her head in silence — it was no more 
than she had expected, and she awaited in the strength 
of despair what was to follow. It was not long in com- 
ing. Ten days later Richard III. was crowned in the 
Abbey with great splendour, and her brothers removed 




'Sh.* (S^xu&eTv5> cntfruLStb little T^^Katt^ to tXe CartLuxAb 



to the Portcullis Tower and deprived of their attendants. 
Edward at least knew full well what all this meant. 'I 
would mine uncle would let me have my life though I lose 
my kingdom,' he said to the gentleman who came to in- 
form him of the duke of Gloucester's coronation; but 
from that moment he gave up all hope, and 'with that 
young babe his brother lingered in thought and 
heaviness.' 



192 THE WHITE ROSE 

Who can describe the grief and horror of the fugitives 
in the sanctuary when all that they had feared had 
actually come to pass? The queen was Hke one mad, 
and though her elder daughters did all they could to tend 
and soothe her, their own sorrow was deep, and the dread 
was ever present with them that, as children had been 
declared unfit persons to inhabit the sanctuary, there was 
nothing to hinder the usurper from seizing on them if 
he thought fit. And to whom could they turn for coun- 
sel or comfort? Only three months had passed since 
the death of king Edward, yet his sons, his step-son, and 
his brother-in-law, had all been slain by the same hand. 
The queen's other son by her first husband, the marquis 
of Dorset, was in Yorkshire, trying to induce the people 
to rebel against the tyrant, but few joined his standard; 
the insurrection planned by her brother-in-law^, the duke 
of Buckingham, in the West came to nothing, while the 
leader was betrayed and executed. They had no money, 
and it is quite possible that Richard contrived that the 
abbot should have none to give them. The trials and 
privations of the winter of 1469 were light in compari- 
son to those they suffered in that of 1483, for now they 
w^ere increased by agony of mind and every device 
that could be invented by cruelty. What wonder, then, 
that, not knowing where to look for , help, the queen 
should at last have consented to make terms with her 
enemy ? 

So, in March, 1484, she lent an unwilling ear to 
Richard's messenger, but refused absolutely to quit the 
sanctuary till the king had sworn, in the presence of his 
council, of the lord mayor and of the aldermen of the 
city of London, that the lives of herself and her children 
should be spared. Even Richard dared not break that 
oath, for there were signs that the people w^re growing 
weary of so much blood, and, in London especially, the 
memory of Edward was still dear to the citizens. There- 
fore he had to content himself with depriving the queen 



THE WHITE ROSE 193 

of the title which she had borne for twenty years, and of 
hinting at a previous marriage of Edward IV. She was, 
besides, put under charge of one of Richard's officers, w^ho 
spent as he thought fit the allowance of 700/. a year voted 
for her by Parliament. It is not very certain where she 
lived, but most likely in some small upper rooms of the 
palace of Westminster, w^here she had once dwelt in splen- 
dour and reigned as queen. During the first few months 
she seems to have had her four elder daughters with her 

— Bridget was probably in the convent of Dartford, where 
she later became a nun; but after the death of his son, 
Edward, Richard sent for them to court. Their cousin, 
Anne of Warwick, the queen, received them with great 
kindness, and together they all wept over the sorrows 
that had befallen them. .Richard himself took but little 
notice of them, -except to invent projects of marriage be- 
tween Elizabeth and more than one private gentleman 

— rather for the sake of wounding her pride than because 
he meant seriously to carry them through. At Christ- 
mas, however, it was necessary to hold some state fes- 
tivals, and both Anne and the princesses put off their 
mourning and attended the state banquets and balls which 
the king had ordered to be held in Westminster Hall. 
It was Anne's last appearance before her death, three 
months later, and it was remarked by all present that 
the queen had caused Elizabeth to be dressed like her- 
self, in gold brocade, which marvellously became the 
princess, and with her bright hair and lovely complexion 
she must have made a strong contrast to the dying 
queen. 

While at court Elizabeth met and made friends with 
the lord high steward, Stanley, the second husband of 
the countess of Richmond. This lady, who had desired 
for years to see her son Henry married to princess Eliz- 
abeth, had been exiled from court owing to her numer- 
ous plots to this end; but Richard thought that the best 
means of keeping Stanley loyal was to retain him about 
14 



194 THE WHITE ROSE 

his person, as he was too useful to be put to death. One 
night, however, a fresh thought darted into the king's 
brain. Henry of Richmond was his enemy; the Lancas- 
trian party in England was growing daily, owing as Rich- 
ard told himself quite frankly, to the number of people 
he had felt obliged to execute. If Henry married Eliz- 
abeth he would gain over to his side a large number of 
Yorkists, and together they might prove too strong for 
him. But suppose he, the king, was to marry the 'heir- 
ess of England,' as her father loved to call her, would not 
that upset all the fine plans that were for ever being hatched ? 
True, he was her uncle; but a dispensation from the Church 
was easily bought, and in Spain these things were done 
every day. So Richard went to bed delighted with his 
own cleverness. 

Great was Elizabeth's horror when the rumour reached 
her ears, told her by one of queen Anne's ladies. ' Never, 
never will I consent to such wickedness,' cried she, and 
sent off a trusty messenger to Stanley to tell him of this 
fresh plot by her brothers' murderer, and to entreat his 
help. This Stanley agreed to give, though insisting that 
the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary, for any 
imprudence would cost them all their lives. He next 
induced Elizabeth to write herself to his powerful brothers, 
and to others of his kinsmen, and despatched these let- 
ters by the hand of one of his servants. The Stanelys 
all agreed to join the conspiracy against Richard, pro- 
vided that the princess should marry Henry, earl of Rich- 
mond, thus uniting the two Roses, and to discuss this a 
meeting was arranged in London. That night, when 
all was still, Elizabeth noiselessly left her room in West- 
minster Palace, and stole down a narrow stone stair- 
case to a door which was opened for her by the sentry, 
who had served under her father. At a little distance 
off one of Stanley's men was awaiting her with a horse, 
and together they rode through byways till they reached 
an old inn on the outskirts of the city, towards the north. 



THE WHITE ROSE 



195 



They stopped at a door with an eagle's claw chalked on 
it, and on entering she found herself in a room with about 
a dozen gentlemen, who bowed low at the sight of her. 
'Let us do our business in all haste,' said Stanley, 'as 
time presses.' And he began shortly to state his scheme 
for sending Humphrey Brereton over to France bearing 




EZ^aZret>i,^oe5 to the, inrv to mee't the Conspirators 



a ring of Elizabeth's as a token of his truth, and likewise 
a letter, which she was to write, telling of the proposal 
that the Houses of York and Lancaster should be united 
in marriage, and that Henry should be king. But here 
Elizabeth held up her hand, and, looking at the men stand- 
ing round her, she said steadily: 

*Will you swear, my lords, by Holy Church that you 



196 THE WHITE ROSE 

mean no ill to the noble earl, but that you bid him come 
hither in all truth and honour ? ' 

'Ah, verily, Madam, we swear it,' answered they, 'for 
our own sakes as well as for his.' 

'Then the letter and the ring shall be ready to-morrow 
night,' rephed Elizabeth, 'and shall be dehvered to you by 
lord Stanley. And now, my lords, I will bid you fare- 
well.' And, attended as before by a soHtary horseman, 
with a beating heart she made her way back to the pal- 
ace. Only when safe in her own room did she breathe 
freely; and well might she fear, for had Richard guessed 
her absence, short would have been her shrift. 

As it was the conspirators were just in time. Some- 
how or other the news of the king's intended marriage 
with his niece leaked out, and so deep was the disgust 
of the people that Richard saw that his crown would not 
be safe for a single day if he were to persist. So, in order 
to appease his subjects, as well as to avenge himself on 
Elizabeth for her ill-concealed hatred of him, he dismissed 
her from court, and despatched her under a strong guard 
to the castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, where the 
owner, her cousin, the young earl of Warwick, was then 
Hving. Oh! how thankful Elizabeth was to escape from 
London, and to know that hundreds of miles lay between 
her and her persecutor. To be sure, her mother and 
sisters were still there; but it was she, and not they, whose 
life was in danger, for had it not been foretold that the 
crown of England should rest on her head? What peace 
it was to roam in the castle gardens, or to sit by the win- 
dow of her little room embroidering strange devices, or 
looking out on the broad moorland where the larks and 
thrushes sang all day long! Only one thing spoiled her 
content, and that was anxiety as to how the messenger 
had sped who had gone over the seas to the earl of Rich- 
mond. 

That tale has been told in another place, and how king 



THE WHITE ROSE 197 

Henry sent an escort, after the battle of Bosworth, to bring 
his future queen to London. As she rode along, under sum- 
mer skies, the nobles and people thronged to meet her 
and do homage, and at length the happy day came when 
openly and fearlessly she could join her mother in West- 
minster Palace. It was no light task to settle things in 
England after a strife which had lasted for thirty years; 
and besides, a terrible plague, known as the Sweating Sick- 
ness, was raging in London, so it was not till January i8, 
i486, a month before Elizabeth's twentieth birthday, that 
the much-talked-of marriage took place. The papal leg- 
ate, a cousin of Elizabeth's, performed the ceremony in 
the Abbey, and London, which had so long looked for- 
w^ard to the event, celebrated it with banquets and bon- 
fires — rather dangerous in a city whose houses were 
mostly of wood. 'By which marriage,' says the chron- 
icler, 'peace was thought to descend out of heaven into 
England.' 

And there we leave Elizabeth, her childhood being 
over. 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

Nearly a thousand years ago a little boy was living in 
a castle which stood on the edge of a lake in the midst 
of a very large forest. We should have to go a long way 
nowadays before we could find any so big; but then there 
were fewer people in Europe than at present, and so for 
the most part the wild animals were left undisturbed. In 
the forest that surrounded the lake, which from the still- 
ness of its waters was called Morte-mer, or the Dead Sea, 
there were plenty of bears, besides boars and deer. Of 
course, from time to time the lord of the castle, William 
Longsword, whose father Rollo had come from over the 
seas to settle in Normandy, called his friends and his men 
round him, and had a great hunt, which lasted two or 
three days. Then everyone in the castle would be busy, 
some in taking off the skins of the animals and hanging 
them out to dry, before turning them into coverings for 
the beds or floors, or coats to wear in the long cold win- 
ter; while others cut up the meat and salted it, so that 
they might never lack food. In summer the skins were 
rolled up and put away, and instead rushes were cut from 
the neighbouring swamps — for around the Morte-mer 
not even rushes would grow — and silk hangings were 
hung from the walls or the ceilings, instead of deer skins, 
and occasionally a rough box planted with wild roses or 
honeysuckle might be seen standing in a corner of the great 
haU. 

But when little Richard was not much more than a 
year old a dreadful thing happened to him. As often 

198 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 199 

occurred in those days, duke William sent away his wife, 
Richard's mother, who was poor and low-born, in order 
to marry a noble lady called Liutgarda, whose father, the 
rich and powerful count of Vermandois, might be of use 
in the wars which William was always carrying on with 
somebody. Although Liutgarda had no children of her 
own, she hated Richard, and never rested till she had 
prevailed on her husband to send him away to the palace 
of Fecamp, where he was born. William, though fickle 
and even treacherous to his friends, was fond of his little 
boy, and for a long while he refused to listen to any- 
thing Liutgarda said; but when he was leaving home 
he suddenly bethought him that the child might be safer 
if he were removed from the hands of the duchess, so he 
pretended to agree to her proposal. Summoning before 
him the three men in whom he had most faith, Botho, 
count of Bayeux, Oslac, and Bernard the Dane, he placed 
Richard in their care, and bade them to take heed 
to the child and teach him what it was fitting he should 
learn. 

We know little of Richard's early childhood, but it 
was probably passed in just the same manner as that of 
other young princes of his day. We may be sure that 
his guardians, all mighty men of valour, saw that he could 
sit a kicking horse and shoot straight at a mark. Be- 
sides these sports, Botho, who loved books himself, had 
him taught to read, and even to write — rare accom- 
plishments in those times — and on the whole Richard 
was very happy, and never troubled himself about the 
future. 

After eight years of this peaceful life a change came. 
Long before his guardians had been obHged to leave him, 
and others, chosen by William with equal care, had taken 
their place. One morning the boy came in from spend- 
ing an hour at shooting at a mark, and ran up proudly 
to tell his old tutor, who was sitting in the hall, that he 
had eight times hit the very centre of the target, and that 



200 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

his hand shook so from pulUng his bow that he was sure 
he could not guide his reed pen that day. 

'Say you so?' answered the old man, smihng, for he 
knew the heart of a boy, 'well, there is something else 
for you to do. Your father, Richard,' he continued, his 
face growing grave, 'is very ill, and has sent to fetch you 
to him.' 

'My father!' said Richard, his face flushing with ex- 
citement at the prospect of a journey, 'where is he? 
Where am I to go? And who will take me? Is he at 
Rouen ? ' 

'No, at Chevilly, and we start in an hour, after we have 
dined, and I will take you myself,' was the answer; and 
Richard hastened away, full of importance, to make his 
preparations. He was not at all a hard-hearted little boy, 
but he had not seen his father for four years, and remem- 
bered little about him. 

William Longsword was lying in his bed when Richard 
entered the small dark room, only lighted by two blazing 
torches, and by a patch of moonlight which fell on the 
rush-strewn stone floor. In the shadow stood three men, 
and as the boy glanced at them he made a spring towards 
one and held out his hands. 

'Ah, he loves you better than me, Botho,' gasped Wil- 
liam in a hoarse voice, between the, stabs of pain that 
darted through his lungs. 'Take off his clothes, and let 
us see if his body is straight and strong as that of a duke 
of Normandy should be.' Yes, he was tall and straight- 
limbed enough, there was no doubt of that! His skin 
was fair, as became one of the Viking race, and his eyes 
were blue and his hair shone like gold. His father looked 
at him with pride, but all he said was: 

'Listen to me, boy! My Hfe is nearly done, but I am 
so weary that I cannot even wait till it is over before giv- 
ing up my ducal crown to you. I have done many ill 
deeds, but my people have loved me, for I have defended 
the poor and given justice to all. I can say no more now; 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 201 

take his hands in yours and swear!' Then the three men 
clad in armour knelt before the boy, and one by one, tak- 
ing his hands in theirs, they swore the oath of obedience. 
The duke watched eagerly, and when the ceremony was 
over he motioned them all to leave him, murmuring in 
a low voice, 'To-morrow.' 

The following day William was a little better. He 
had taken the first step towards Richard's inauguration 
as duke of Normandy, and his mind was more at ease. 
The ceremony itself was to take place on Whit-Sunday, 
May 29, 942, and was to be held at Bayeux, where the boy 
was to live. For the duke wished his son to be brought up 
in the full knowledge of the Danish language and customs, 
and Bayeux was the one city in the whole of Normandy 
where the old tongue was spoken and the pagan religion 
prevailed. At the same time he was to learn the best 
French of the day, that of the court of the king Louis 
d 'Outre Mer — Louis from Beyond the Seas — and to be 
properly educated in the Christian faith. To this end no 
man was so suitable as Richard's former tutor, Botho, 
count of Bayeux, a man of renown both as a scholar and 
a warrior, and who, though a Dane by birth, had become 
a Christian and had adopted French ways. 

By slow stages William made the journey to Bayeux, 
his son riding by the side of his tutor, chattering merrily 
all the way. In obedience to his summons, all the nobles 
and chieftains from Normandy and Brittany were as- 
sembled there, and met him on the day appointed in the 
great hall of the castle. In spite of his illness, from which 
he had by no means recovered, Wilham was a splendid 
figure as he sat on a carved chair placed on the dais, with 
the ducal crown upon his head, and looked down on the 
stalwart men gathered before him. By his side stood 
Richard in a green tunic, a small copy of his father, and 
he faced them with a smile in his eyes, till their hearts 
went out to him. Amidst a dead silence, William rose 
to his feet. 



202 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

*I cannot speak much,' he said, 'for I have been sick 
unto death, but I have brought here my young son, to bid 
you accept him as your duke in my stead, and to tell you 
the plans I have made for his guidance, while he is still 
a boy. He will live here at Bayeux, and will learn the 
lore of his forefathers, and three good men and true, Botho, 
Oslac, and Bernard the Dane, have the care of him, as 
before in his early years. Besides them, seven other 
nobles will give counsel. This is my wish. Will you swear 
to abide by it, and to take the oath of fealty to your new 
duke?' 

'We swear,' they cried with one voice, and then each 
man in turn took Richard's hand in his, and did homage. 
Then father and son bid each other farewell, for William 
must needs go on other business. 

After this wonderful scene, in which he had played so 
important a part, life felt for a while somewhat tame to 
Richard, and at first he was rather inclined to give him- 
self airs of authority and to refuse obedience to Botho. 
The count of Bayeux was not, however, a person to put 
up with behaviour of this sort, and in a short time Rich- 
ard was learning his lessons and shooting and fishing 
as diligently as before. But this state of things did not 
last long. One evening a man-at-arms rode up on a tired 
horse and demanded speech of Bernard the Dane. It 
was a sad story he had to tell; duke William had been 
bidden, as all men already knew, on a certain day to meet 
king Louis at Attigny, in order to answer some charges 
of murder which had been made against him. It was 
the custom to allow three days of grace on account of the 
accidents that were apt to befall travellers in those rough 
times, but the appointed hour was past when William 
rode up to the castle, and found the door closed against 
him. Furious at being shut out, he ordered his men to 
force an entrance, and, striding up to the dais, dragged 
his enemy Otho of Germany from the throne by the side 
of the king, and beat him soundly. Of course, such an 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 203 

insult to the ally of the king of France could not be passed 
over, but instead of punishing it openly, WilHam was en- 
trapped into going to an island in the middle of the river, 
and there murdered. 

At this news all Normandy was in an uproar, for, as 
has been said, WilHam's subjects loved him well and 
grieved for him deeply; and by none was he more sorely 
mourned than by his cast-off wife Espriota, who had for 
these few past months been Hving near her son, and had 
seen him occasionally. But this was now at an end, for 
Richard was at once removed by his guardians to the 
palace of Rouen, there to attend his father's burial and 
his own coronation, which was in its way as important 
an event as that of the king of France, who had but Httle 
territory or power in comparison with some of his great 
nobles. 

When the young duke reached Rouen he found that 
his father's body had been removed from the palace whither 
it had been taken after his murder, and was lying in state 
in the cathedral of Notre Dame, with the famous long 
sword, from which he had gained his nickname, on his 
breast. The grave had been dug close by, opposite to 
his father Rollo's, the first duke and conqueror of Nor- 
mandy, and beside it was an empty place, where Richard 
guessed that he would some day rest. The cathedral 
was crowded that morning, and many thoughts of love 
and pity were given, not only to the dead man, but to the 
fair-haired boy of nine w^ho stood by the bier, not over- 
come with grief for the father whom he had scarcely seen, 
but awed and a Httle bewildered at what would be expected 
of him. All through the long service Richard stood still, 
now and then gazing wonderingly at the multitude which 
filled the body of the cathedral. Then, after the coffin 
had been lowered into the grave, the great doors were 
thrown open, and he was led forward by Bernard and 
presented to his subjects, Normans, Bretons, and Danes, 
who welcomed him with a shout. The priest next came 



204 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

slowly down the chancel, and Richard, kneeling before 
him, received his blessing, and swore as far as in him 
lay to preserve peace to tlie Church and to the people, 
to put down tyranny, and to rule justly. Rising to his 
feet, the ring of sovereignty was put on his finger and the 
sword of government buckled to his side; then, taking 
his stand before the sacred shrine, the book of the Gos- 
pels being held by a priest on his left hand, and the 
Holy Rood or Cross by another on his right, he waited 
for the chiefs and nobles to take the oath of loyalty to 
him. 

Now it was plain to all men that troubles were nigh 
at hand for the duchy. 'Woe to the land whose king is 
a child' it is written in Scripture, and Richard's wise coun- 
cillor's knew full well what they might expect from king 
Louis. They met together the night after the funeral, 
when the Htttle duke, worn out by all he had gone through, 
was fast asleep, and consulted together how they could 
get the better of king Louis, and at last they decided that 
they would escort Richard without delay to Compiegne, 
where the king then was, and induce Louis to invest him 
at once with the duchy. No time was lost in putting this 
plan into execution; but even Norman cleverness was 
no match for the wiHness of the king. Blinded by their 
kind reception and by flattering words, they awoke one 
day to find that they had taken the oath of fealty to Louis 
as their immediate overlord, and thus it was he, and not 
Richard, whom they were bound to obey. Deeply ashamed 
of themselves, they returned with their charge to Rouen; 
but during their short absence the Danish party, headed 
by Thermod, had obtained the upper hand, and soon got 
possession of Richard himself, even persuading the boy 
to renounce Christianity and declare himself a pagan. 
This of course gave the chance for which Louis had been 
hoping. It was, he said, a duty he owed both to the 
Church and to Richard to put a stop to such back- 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 205 

sliding, and forthwith he marched straight to the capital. 
After several skirmishes, in one of which Thermod 
the Dane was killed, Louis entered Rouen as a con- 
queror, and under pretext of protection took Richard 
into his own custody, and proceeded to administer the 
laws. 

Perhaps if Louis from Beyond the Seas had been brought 
up in France he would have known better the sort of people 
he had to deal with; but when he was a httle child his 
mother had been forced to fly with him to the court of 
his grandfather Athelstan, where he had grown up, learn- 
ing many things, but not much of his subjects, several of 
whom were far more powerful than he. To these Nor- 
mans, or Northmen of Danish blood, and to the Bretons, 
who were akin to the Welsh, the king of France, though 
nominally their sovereign, was really as much a foreigner 
as Otho of Germany. He was not going to rule them, and 
that he would soon find out! So one day they appeared 
before the palace and demanded their duke, and as he 
was not given up to them they broke into open revolt, 
and not only gained possession of Richard, but made Louis 
himself prisoner. In this manner the tables were turned: 
Richard was once more duke in his own duchy, and Louis 
was kept in strict confinement till he swore to Bernard 
the Dane to restore to Normandy the rights which had 
been forfeited at Compiegne. But even so the boy's guar- 
dians had not learned wisdom, for in spite of what had 
ha]3pened before they were persuaded by Louis on some 
slight pretext to allow him to carry Richard back to the 
royal town of Laon, and once there he was instantly 
placed, with Osmond a Norman noble, under arrest in the 
tower. 

By this time, 944, Richard was eleven years old, and 
the strange life he had led sinc^ his father died had ri- 
l)ened him early. On many occasions when his life had 
been in peril he had shown not only great courage but 
self-control beyond his age. Danger he delighted in, it 



206 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

only excited him; but in the tower of Laon time hung 
heavy on his hands, for he was forbidden to go outside 
the walls, and he was growing weak and languid from 
want of exercise. Great, therefore, was his delight when 
one morning at the hour that Louis sat in judgment on 
the cases brought by his people, his guardian Osmond 
came to tell him that he had two horses standing at a 
small gate at the back of the courtyard, and would take 
him out for a day's hawking. 

'How dehcious!' cried Richard, springing up out of 
the deep seat of the window, from which he had been 
looking longingly over the country. 'Has the king given 
leave, then, or shall we go without it?' 

'Without it,' answered Osmond with rather an odd 
smile. 'It may not reach his ears, or if it does he can 
hardly slay us for it.' 

'Oh, never mind!' said Richard again, 'what matters 
it ? I would give twenty lives for a good gallop once more,' 
and following Osmond down the winding staircase, they 
reached the postern door unseen. The autumn evening 
was fast closing in when they returned, Richard full of 
excitement and pleasure over his day's sport. Osmond, 
however, was not quite so light-hearted. He knew that 
he had done wrong in tempting the boy out, and he feared 
the consequences. Well he might! The wrath of Louis 
was fearful at finding that his birds had flown, and mes- 
sengers had been sent in all directions to capture them. 
In his anger he threatened to kill them both, and his 
rash words were carried far and wide; but, as Osmond 
knew, he dared not for his own sake carry out his threat, 
though he could and did make their captivity even more 
irksome than before, and much they needed the constant 
prayers offered up for them in Rouen. Things would 
have been still worse than they were had not Osmond, 
fortunately, been a man of some learning, and for some 
hours every day he taught the young duke all he knew. 
By and bye the severity of the rule was slightly relaxed, 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 207 

and Richard was bidden to perform the duties of a page, 
and wait at dinner on Louis and his queen Gerberga. This 
on the whole pleased Richard, though he felt that he ought 
to consider it an outrage to his dignity; but at any rate 
it was a change, and it showed him something of the life 
of courts, though, as matters were, it did not seem very 
likely that he would ever govern one! 

The weather was very wet, and the rain stood in great 
pools about the courtyard and in the country outside the 
castle. The damp told upon Richard's health, which 
had already been weakened by his long captivity, and 
at last he was too ill to rise from his bed. Osmond nursed 
him carefully, and by the king's order better food was given 
him, so that he soon began to show signs of mending; 
but his guardian was careful that he should not get well 
too soon, for he had made a plan of escape, and 
the more the boy was believed incapable of moving 
the less he would be watched, and the easier it would be 
to carry out. So when the seneschal of the castle or 
the king's steward came to make inquiries for the 
noble prisoner, Richard would turn his head slowly 
and languidly, and answer the questions put to him in 
a soft, tired voice. 

'The young duke looks in ill case,' the man would re- 
port, ' and I misdoubt me ' — and then he would stop 
and shake his head, while the king nodded in answer. 
Such was the state of affairs when one day it was announced 
that a huge banquet would be held in the castle of Laon, 
at which the queen would be present. Great prepara- 
tions were made in the courtyard, and cooks and 
sculKons and serving-men kept running to and fro. 
Richard spent all his time at the window, watching the 
excitement, but on the morning of the feast, when the 
seneschal paid his daily visit, he was lying on the bed, 
hardly able to answer, as it seemed, the questions put to 
him. 



208 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

'To-iiight is our time,' said Osmond when they were 
once more alone. 

'Time for what?' asked Richard, who had obeyed, 
without knowing why, the orders of his guardian to ap- 
pear more ill than ever. 

'Our time to escape from this den of thieves,' replied 
Osmond. 'I would not tell you before, for the eyes of 
Raoul the seneschal are sharp, and I feared lest yours 
should be brighter than need be. But eat well of what 
is set before you, for you will want all your strength.' 

'But how shall we pass the sentries?' asked Richard 
again. 

'Ah, how?' said Osmond, laughing. 'Never puzzle 
your brain, but what has been done once can be done 
twice'; and that w^as all he would tell him. 

Hours were earlier then than now, and by seven o'clock 
there was not a creature to be seen in the passages or be- 
fore the gates, for all who had not been bidden to the ban- 
quet were amusing themselves in the guard-room, quite 
safe from any detection by their masters. Then Osmond, 
wrapped in a thick cloak, beckoned to Richard, and 
they crept across the courtyard, most of which lay in 
shadow, till they reached the barn where the hay was 
kept. There Osmond took down a large truss, and 
tying it securely round Richard hoisted, the bundle on to 
his back. 

' Whatever happens, make no noise,' he whispered 
hurriedly, and stepped out into the moonhght that lay 
between the barn and the stables. Here was the only 
danger, for he might be spied by one of the men in the 
guardroom, and even be stopped if he or his bundle looked 
suspicious. A voice from behind gave him such a start 
that he almost dropped his hay; but the man was too 
drunk to see clearly, and a timely jest satisfied him that 
Osmond was an old comrade, and was only doing 
the work of a friend who was too busy feeding himself 
to have leisure to think of his horses. His heart still 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 



209 



beating high, Osmond reached the stable, and, choosing a 
lean black horse, he put on it both saddle and bridle, and 
led it out by a side door, which opened out on a dark muddy 




TWB TK.WSS OF HilV' 



street. Rapidly he cut with his hunting knife the rope 
which had bound the hay, and flung it into a corner. 

'You must sit in front of me,' he said, lifting Richard 
on to the saddle. Then, jumping up behind him, he 
15 



210 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

wrapt his big cloak round the boy, till nothing could be 
seen of him. Carefully they went till the town was passed, 
when Osmond shook the reins, and the horse bounded 
away in the night. 

'Where are we going?' asked Richard at last, after they 
had ridden for several miles. 

'To Couci,' answered Osmond, 'and there I will leave 
you in safety with a friend of your father's, while I will 
get a fresh horse and ride on to your great uncle count 
Bernard at Senlis.' 

Fierce was the wrath of the king when the seneschal 
awoke him early next morning with the news that Richard's 
room in the tower was empty, and that both Osmond and 
the horse Fierbras were gone. 

'But how — how did he do it?' asked the king, when 
he had somewhat recovered the power of speech. 'For 
none could reach the stable without passing first under 
the windows of the guardroom, and besides the moon was 
at the full, and a man and a boy w^ould be noted by all 
the sentries?' 

'Yes, my lord, doubtless,' repHed the trembling sene- 
schal; 'and truly a man was seen and challenged by one 
of the soldiers, but no boy was with him. He was going 
to feed the horses, and he had on his back a truss 
of hay.' 

^ Ah!^ exclaimed the king, starting to his feet, and fell 
to silence, for through the years there came to him the 
remembrance of how his mother Ogiva had borne him 
out of reach of his enemies in a truss of hay. Truly, what 
had been done once could be done twice, as Osmond the 
Norman had said! 

Now, as has been told, there were several nobles in 
France much more powerful than the king, and of these 
the greatest was Hugh le Grand, father of the celebrated 
Hugh Capet from whom all the French kings traced 
their descent. Him Bernard count of Senlis sought, 
and implored his aid on behalf of Richard, which Hugh 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 211 

readily promised; but the compact did not last long, 
for when Louis offered him half of Normany as a bribe, 
Hugh abandoned Richard's cause, and made ready for 
the invasion of the duchy. Bernard turned white with 
rage when he learnt what had happened, but he did not 
waste words, and after going to Rouen in order to consult 
with Bernard the Dane, a swift little ship sailed down the 
Seine and steered for the coast of Denmark. At the same 
time a messenger was secretly sent to Paris, where Richard 
was in hiding, and by night he was brought down the 
Seine and into Rouen. Three weeks later a fleet with 
Viking prows, commanded by the famous warrior Harold 
Blue-tooth, appeared off the Norman coasts and lay at 
anchor in a quiet bay, till the men they carried were 
needed. Not many hours later a watchman on one of 
the towers perceived a large army approaching from 
the north-east. When within a mile of the city, it 
halted, and a herald was sent out, summoning the 
duke to surrender, in the name of the king his sov- 
ereign lord. Instead of the duke, Bernard the Dane 
came forth to speak with him, and bade him return to 
his master and tell him the only conditions on which 
the gates would be opened. They were not hard, but 
chief amongst them was the stipulation that Louis 
should enter attended only by his pages, and that his 
army should remain outside. So well did Bernard act, 
that he not only contrived to set at rest Louis' suspicions 
of himself by paying him all the honour possible, but 
when he was safe in the palace contrived to instil into his 
mind doubts of Hugh, till the king agreed to break the 
alliance between them. After he had accomplished this, 
Bernard threw off the mask, and bade Harold Blue-tooth 
march from Cherbourg and join the Normans in an attack 
on the French, who were easily defeated. Harold's next 
step was to take possession of the duchy on behalf of 
Richard, but, instead of remaining in it himself as the 
real governor, merely assisted the Normans to obtain the 



212 RICHARD THE FEARLESS 

freedom of their country from the captive king. At a 
meeting between Louis, Hugh and Richard on the banks 
of the Epte, the king was forced to surrender the rights 
he had illegally assumed, and Normandy was declared 
independent. Then they all went their ways, Louis to 
Laon, which had undergone a liege from Hugh, and Harold 
to Denmark, while grand preparations were made for the 
state entry of Richard into Rouen. 

Crowds lined the streets through which Richard was 
to pass, and from the city gate to the cathedral the whole 
multitude was chattering and trembling with excitement. 
After many false alarms the banner of Normandy was 
seen in the distance framed in the doorway, while brightly 
polished armour gUttered in the sun. A little in advance 
of his guardians rode Richard on a white horse, prouder 
of wearing for the first time a coat of mail and a helmet 
than even of taking possession of his duchy and receiving 
the homage of his subjects. He was barely thirteen, 
tall for his age, handsome, with a kind heart and 
pleasant manners. He had more book-learning, too, 
than was common with princes of his time, and on wet 
days could amuse himself with chess, or in reading some 
of the scrolls laid up in his palace of Rouen. Young 
though he was, his Hfe had been passed, in a hard school, 
and already he was skilled in judging men, and cautious 
how he trusted them. 

Through the streets he rode smiling, winning as he went 
the love which was to stand by him to the end of his long 
life. At the west door of the cathedral he dismounted, 
and, unfastening his helmet, walked, amid cries of * Long 
live Richard our Duke," Hail to the Duke of Normandy', 
straight up to the High Altar. There he knelt and prayed, 
while the shouting multitudes held their peace reverently. 
Then at length he rose from his knees and turned and 
faced them. 

'Four years ago,' he said, 'you swore oaths of loyalty 
to me, and now I swear them to you. In war and in peace 



RICHARD THE FEARLESS 213 

we will stand together, and with my people by my side 
I am afraid of nobody. From over the seas the fathers 
of many of you came with my fathers, but whether you 
l)e Bretons, Normans, or Danes, I love you all, and will 
deal out justice to all of you.' 

' Bretons, Normans, and Danes are we, 

' But of us all Danes in our welcome to thee ^ 

was their answer. 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

It is often very hard to believe that grown-up people were 
ever little children who played with dolls or spun tops, 
and felt that they could never be happy again when the 
rain came pouring down and prevented them from going 
to a picnic, or having the row on the lake which had been 
promised them as a birthday treat. 

Frederick the Great, the famous king of Prussia, would 
have played if he could in his childhood, and if his father 
would have let him. But, unfortunately for Frederick 
and his elder sister Wilhelmine, and indeed for all the 
other little princes and princesses, the king of Prussia 
thought that time spent in games was time wasted, and 
when, in 1713, he succeeded his old father, everything 
in the kingdom was turned upside down. Some of his 
reforms were very wise, some only very meddlesome, 
as when he forbade the applewomen to sit at their 
stalls in the market unless they had knitting in their 
hands, or created an order of Wig Inspectors, who had 
leave to snatch the wigs off the heads of the passers-by, 
so as to make sure they bore the government stamp 
showing that the wigs had paid duty. Another of • the 
king's fancies was to allow only the plainest food to be 
cooked in the palace, while he refused to permit even 
the queen to have any hangings that attracted dust. For 
this second king of Prussia was very clean, in days when 
washing was thought dangerous, and all through his 
life he frequently accuses the crown prince Frederick of 
being dirty. 

214 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 



215 



But king Frederick William's real passion was soldiering. 
He had served in the Netherlands under Marlborough 
and prince Eugene when he was a mere boy, and the roar 
of the guns sounded always in his ears, as his poor little 
son found to his cost. Unhke other kings, who were 
always dressed in the finest silks and brocades, Frederick 
WiUiam wore a uniform of blue, with red collar and cuffs^ 




.1^ uX^~lT\s]Dectot^ air OofK^ 



while his breeches and waistcoat were of buff. By his 
side hung his sword, and in his hand he carried a cane, 
which he did not scruple to use on the head of any man 
whom he caught idUng in the streets. Most of his spare 
moments were spent in drilling his soldiers, and he took- 
particular deUght in a regiment of Potsdam Guards, 
formed of the tallest men that could be found, either in 
Prussia or elsewhere. To his great delight, the Tsar 



216 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

Peter the Great sent him, in the year 171 7, a hundred 
and fifty giants, from seven to eight feet high, in return 
for the hospitahty he had received from the court of Berlin ; 
and every autumn a certain number were regularly ex- 
pected. The foolish king never guessed that these poor 
creatures had not half the strength of men of ordinary 
size, and would never be able to stand the hardships of 
war. The regiment was his pride, and if he could not 
enlist soldiers for it by fair means, he would do so by 
foul. There is a story of a very tall young carpenter, 
whom the king heard of as living in the town, and was 
of course very anxious to recruit. So two of his ministers 
went to the shop, and ordered a coffin of a special length. 
The carpenter inquired the name of the house to which 
it was to be sent, but the gentlemen answered that they 
would call that evening and see it for themselves. About 
dusk they appeared with some men in attendance, and 
were shown into the workshop, where the long black thing 
lay on the ground, with its hd leaning against the wall 
close by. 

'You have made it much too short,' exclaimed one of 
the gentlemen. 

' Six feet six inches was the length you said, sir ? ' replied 
the carpenter. 

'Yes; but that does not measure more than six feet four! 
You will have to make another.' 

'Pardon me, sir,' answered the young man. 'You will 
find that the full length. I know, for it is just my height'; 
and so saying he laid himself in the coffin. In an instant 
the lid was placed upon it and fastened down, and the 
coffin carried off by the attendants to a safe place. There 
the screws were undone and the lid lifted, but the man 
within did not stir. 

'Here, get up, my good fellow,' cried one of the gen- 
tlemen; but there was no answer. 

'He has fainted,' said someone uneasily, 'he wants a 
taste of brandy'; but when the brandy was brought he 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 217 

could not swallow it. What had happened was plain: 
the carpenter had died from want of air. 

It would have been much happier both for little Fritz 
and Wilhelmine his sister if the drilhng of the army had 
entirely occupied king Frederick WilKam's time and 
thoughts; but, unluckily, he felt it to be his duty to lay 
down rules for the daily life of the crown prince. When 
he was six, and still in the hands of governesses, a regi- 
ment consisting of a hundred Httle boys was formed, of 
which Fritz was the captain, and a real colonel commander- 
in-chief. They were all dressed in a uniform of blue 
with red facings, and wore cocked hats, and for two years 
were drilled by a youth of seventeen, till Fritz had learnt 
his drill properly, and could really command them him- 
self. When this event took place he had already been 
about a year under three tutors — Duhan (who always 
remained his friend); von Finkenstein, and Kalkstein; 
while an old soldier named Von Senning, who had served 
in Marlborough's wars, taught him fortifications and 
mathematics. 

For of course the king's one idea was to make the crown 
prince follow in his own footsteps, and to that end he 
must be strong and hardy. When Frederick WilKam 
went out to hunt, or to review his troops, the boy was 
either galloping behind him or seated with a dozen men 
astride a long pole on wheels, on which it was very 
difficult to keep your seat when jolting over a rough 
country. Beer soup was his chief food, whether he Hked 
it or not; and if the king had had his way the child 
would have been cut off with very little sleep; but 
this, happily, the doctors would not suffer. As to his 
lessons, Fritz was to learn all history, especially the 
history of Brandenburg, and of England and Brunswick 
— countries which were connected wdth his illustrious 
house; French and German, but no Latin; arithmetic, 
geography, economy 'to the roots,' a Httle ancient history, 



218 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

and something of the laws of every kingdom. To these 
strategy and fortification were shortly added; 'For,' writes 
the king, 'there is nothing which can bring a prince 
so much honour as the sword, and he would be de- 
spised of all men if he did not love it and seek his 
sole glory in it.' Fritz's religious duties were also 
strictly attended to, and he was to be brought up a Pro- 
testant. 'Every morning (except Sunday) he is to get 
up at 6 o'clock,' writes his father, 'and after saying his 
prayers he is to wash his face and hands, but not with 
soap.' This sounds rather odd, as the king was so par- 
ticular as to cleanliness, and we are told that he washed 
himself five times a day. But most likely he was afraid 
of the expense, for at eleven, when his son appears in 
his presence, the boy is expressly ordered to 'wash his 
face with water, and his hands with soap and water, 
and to put on a clean shirt.' The third washing of 
hands took place at five, but on this occasion soap is not 
mentioned. 

It must have been very difficult to have been as 'clean 
and neat' as Frederick William required in the few 
minutes he allowed to his son for dressing himself — 
for as soon as possible Fritz was taught to do without 
help. To begin with, however, a valet combed out his 
hair, and tied it into a pig-tail or 'queue' with a piece 
of tape, but no powder was put on till his morning lessons 
were over. This must have been a comfort, considering 
he was to eat his breakfast and drink his tea while the 
hair-dressing was going on, and that by half-past six 
everything was to be finished. From eleven to two he 
remained with the king, amusing himself — if he could 
— and dining with his Majesty at twelve o'clock. At 
two his afternoon lessons began, and lasted till five, when 
he was permitted to go out and ride. He also had half 
holidays, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when his morn- 
ing's work was over, provided that his 'repetition' had 
been satisfactory; and these free hours we may be sure 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 219 

that Fritz spent with his sister Wilhelmine, who, though 
three years older, was always his loyal companion and 
friend. Poor little princess, she was small for her age 
and very delicate, and in years to come she suffered 
almost as much as Fritz from the harsh treatment both 
of her father and mother; but do what they might, nothing 
could break her spirit, or force her to betray her brother's 
confidencCo Wilhelmine was a pretty child, and could use 
her eyes as well as her tongue. She was also a very good 
mimic, and could even pretend to faint so cleverly that 
she frightened those about her so much that the doctor 
would be sent for to see if she was really dead. This, 
of course, w^as exactly what the naughty girl wanted, and 
the more she took them all in the better she w^as pleased. 
No one could be more agreeable than Wilhelmine when 
she chose, but she was very vain, and it was therefore 
easy to wound her feelings. When she w^as nine years 
old she had a sharp illness, from which sne was not 
expected to recover. At length, however, she took a 
turn for the better; and the first thing she did was to beg 
the king to allow her to wear grown-up dresses, and to 
put on the mantle which in those days meant that a young 
lady had 'come out.' Her interest in her new clothes 
did as much to cure her as the medical treatment of 
the time, which was so severe that it was a miracle 
that anyone ever lived through it; and as soon as she 
could stand she ordered her maids to dress her hair high 
over a cushion, and to put on her gown of white silk 
heavy with embroidery, and the much coveted purple 
velvet mantle. 

'I looked at myself in the mirror,' she writes in her 
memoirs, 'and decided that they really became me won- 
derfully well. I next practised moving and walking, so 
that I might play the part of a great lady. Then I en- 
tered the queen's apartments, but unluckily, directly her 
Majesty saw me she burst out laughing, and exclaimed: 
''Good gracious, what a figure! Why she looks like a 



220 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 



little dwarf.'" Perhaps the queen's remarks were true; 
but, none the less, the little girl's feelings were deeply 
wounded. The two children were very much afraid of 




(^oocL CjiTxciovlS x£ha.t a. figiLiTe 

tSV, ^Ke I00K5 like a Uttl^ d^oarf 

the king, and never scrupled to deceive him whenever 
it was possible. As they grew older, Wilhelmine encour- 
aged her brother in all kinds of disobedience, especially 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 221 

in playing the flute, which his father hated, and in reading 
and studying French books, which were likewise forbidden. 
The king wanted him to be a German and a soldier, 
and nothing more; but to the end of his life Fritz could 
neither spell nor write his own language properly. The 
breach thus early made grew always wider by reason of 
the vexed question of the marriage of both Fritz and 
Wilhelmine. 

The princess Wilhelmine was still in the long clothes 
of a tiny baby when her mother, like many mothers, began 
to dream of her future. She was to be beautiful and 
clever and charming, and she must marry a prince as 
beautiful and clever and charming as herself, and who 
could he be but the queen's own nephew, son of her brother, 
George, prince of Hanover, a boy just two years older 
than Wilhelmine, and known to us later as the duke of 
Gloucester, then as the duke of Edinburgh, and lastly as 
Frederick prince of Wales? And when, on a snowy Jan- 
uary day of 1 71 2, the little crown prince entered the world, 
there was another child to plan for, and was there not 
a small princess called Emily or Amelia, a newcomer 
like himself, who would make a suitable bride, say eighteen 
years hence, for the king of Prussia one day to be? The 
princess of Hanover, Caroline of Anspach, was written to, 
and declared that she was delighted to think that some 
day the bonds already uniting the two countries should 
be drawn closer still; so the children sent each other 
presents and pretty notes, and sometimes messages in 
their mothers' letters when they were too lazy to write for 
themselves. 

Now, in spite of all this, Fritz did not trouble his head 
much as to the future; the present, he soon found, was 
quite difficult enough, and besides, he thought much more 
about his flute — which he was forbidden to play — than 
about Amelia. But Wilhelmine, who passed most of her 
time in the palace of Wustershausen, a big castle twenty 



222 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

miles from Berlin, had plenty of time to brood over her 
coming greatness. Often she was alone there with her 
governess; but in the summer Fritz and his tutors spent 
some months at the castle also, and the boy would remain 
for hours in the day watching for strangers to cross the 
bridge that spanned the moat. 

'You never can tell,' he said to Wilhelmine, 'whether 
they will be most frightened at the four eagles' (there 
were two black and two white) 'swirling about their heads, 
or at the black bears which come tumbling towards them! 
It is always one or the other, and sometimes it is both; 
and, anyhow, it is great fun.' 

But in the year 1727, when Fritz was fifteen, these 
pleasant things came to an end. No more Wustershausen 
or Berhn; no more talks with his sister in the childish 
language they had invented for themselves, no more fishing 
expeditions to the ponds in the sandy moor that surrounded 
the palace. The crown prince was major now of the 
Potsdam Grenadiers, and we may be quite sure that the 
king never suffered him to neglect his work. Dressed in 
a smart uniform covered with gold lace, he was to be 
seen at every muster and every review, leading his men; 
but, even now, the boy who, thirty years later, was to 
prove one of the three greatest generals of his century, 
had no love for war, and would hurry back to Potsdam 
to exchange his uniform for a loose dressing-gown, and 
the duties of drilHng for a practice on the flute. In this 
year, too, an event happened which had a great in- 
fluence on the home life of both Fritz and his sister. 
This was the sudden death of George I. on his way 
to Hanover, without his having obtained the consent 
of Parhament to the Double-Marriage Treaty, which 
the queen of Prussia, Sophia Dorothea, had hoped to have 
obtained four years earlier. The new king of England, 
George II., had no particular love for his brother-in-law 
of Prussia, and for his part Frederick William, though 
at that time he desired the marriages quite as much as his 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 223 

wife, amply returned his feelings. At length the repeated 
delays drove him nearly out of his mind with fury, and he 
vented his anger on the queen (who would have suffered 
any humiliation rather than give up her project) and 
on the prince and princess. Henceforth the life of the 
royal family was made up of violence on the one part 
and deceit on the other. People began to take 'sides,' 
and the quarrel between father and son grew worse 
daily. 

It was to keep him under his own eye, and not in the 
least to give him pleasure, that, in 1728, Frederick William 
bade Fritz accompany him to Dresden on a visit to August 
the Strong, elector of Saxony and king of Poland, and 
even gave him leave to order a blue coat trimmed with 
gold lace for himself, and six new liveries for his attend- 
ants. The crown prince, who was only now sixteen, 
must have felt that he had indeed entered into another 
world, when he contrasted the Saxon court, with its splen- 
did surroundings and incessant amusements, with the 
bare rooms and coarse food of the palace of Berlin. Other 
comparisons might be made, and Fritz did not fail to 
make them. Here he was treated as a welcome guest, 
and as a person of importance, while at home he was 
scolded and worried from morning till night. So, instead 
of the silent, sulky boy Frederick William was accus- 
tomed to see about him, there appeared a gracious, smiling 
young prince, with a pleasant word for everyone, enjoying 
all the pleasures provided for him, the opera most 
of all. 

On his return to Berlin, Fritz fell suddenly ill, and for 
a while there seemed to be a chance of reconciliation be- 
tween him and his father. But this reconciliation did 
not last, and the prince had, or pretended to have, a re- 
lapse, in order to avoid going with his father on a tour 
through Prussia. But, ill or well, he could not escape 
from the rules the king laid down for him, and they were 



224 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

as strict now as they had been nine years before. A lesson 
on tactics was to occupy two hours every morning, after 
which, at noon, he was to dine in company with his tutors 
major Senning and Colonel von Kalkstein, and the master 
of the kitchen as well, which sounds rather strange to us. 
He might, however, invite six friends of his own, and dine 
or have supper with them in return; but he was always to 
sleep in the palace, and ' to go to bed the instant the retreat 
sounded.' Then the king went away, sure that everything 
would go on to his Hking. 

But no sooner had he turned his back on BerHn than 
a sort of hohday spirit took possession of the palace. * We 
were perfectly happy, ' writes Wilhelmine, in her memoirs, 
and there was no reason that they should ever have been 
anything else, as the 'happiness' mainly consisted in 
hearing as much music as they wished for, and for Fritz 
in also playing the flute. From this instrument, which 
was fated to bring him into so much trouble, the crown 
prince never parted, and even when hunting with his 
father he would contrive to lose himself, and hiding be- 
hind a large tree or crouching in a thicket, he would play 
some of the tunes which so delighted his soul. During 
this memorable month, when the 'days passed quietly,' 
the queen gave concerts, aided by famous musicians, 
Bufardin, the flutist, and Quantz, who was not only a 
performer but a composer, and others who were celebrated 
at the Saxon court (whence they came at the queen's re- 
quest) for their skill on spinet or vioHn. All this, however, 
ceased on the reappearance of the king at Wustershausen, 
and matters fell back into their old grooves: on one side 
there was suspicion and tyranny, on the other lies and 
intrigues. Fritz tried to break away from it all by 
persuading Kalkstein to ask his father's permission to 
travel in foreign countries. But Frederick William abso- 
lutely refused to let his son quit Prussia, and things 
w^ere worse than they need have been, owing to the 
smallness of the house where they were all shut up to- 




t^l^EDEfllCK PRACTISES HIS FL\;TE tVEN WHEN OUT HUNTlN(i 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 227 

gether. Certainly never had a father and son more different 
tastes. 

'To-morrow I am obhged to hunt, and on Monday I 
am obhged to hunt again,' writes Fritz. He is bored by 
the court jests and jesters, as well as by the king's guests. 
As for the days, they seemed perfectly endless, and well 
they might, seeing that it was no uncommon thing for 
him to get up at five and go to bed at midnight! No 
wonder he exclaimed 'I had rather beg my bread than 
Hve any longer on this footing.' Once again Fritz made 
an effort after a better state of things, and wrote to his 
father to apologise for any offence he might unwittingly 
have committed, and to assure him of his respectful duty. 
He had perhaps been wiser to have let ill alone, for the 
king only rephed by taunts of his 'girhshness,' and hatred 
of everything manly — which is all rather funny, when we 
remember that the object of these reproaches was Frederick 
the Great — and in general was so unkind and unjust, 
that both Kalkstein and the other tutor Finkenstein re- 
signed in disgust. 

During this same autumn the discussion about the two 
English marriages was re-opened. As regards the king, 
he was as anxious as the queen for that of Wilhelmine 
with the prince of Wales, but, unlike her, he considered 
Fritz too young and unsteady to take to himself a wife. 
This did not please king George at all, and in answer to 
a letter from Sophia Dorothea, queen Caroline wrote that 
both marriages must take place — or neither. This reply 
put Frederick William in a towering passion. Wilhelmine 
should marry somebody, he said, and that at once. She 
was nearly twenty now, and had five younger sisters for 
whom husbands would have to be found. Indeed, he was 
not at all sure he should not prefer the margrave of Schwedt 
for a son-in-law, than the stuck-up English prince! So 
he stormed; and meanwhile the queen, Wilhelmine, and 
Fritz kept up a secret correspondence with the court of 
St. James. 



228 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

About this same year (1729) the crown prince made 
friends with one of the king's pages, Keith by name, and 
also with a certain Heutenant Katte. These two young 
men had the same tastes as himself, and were with him 
during all his leisure hours. When Fritz could escape 
from the hated reviews or hunts, in which he was forced 
to bear his father company, he would hurry back to his 
own apartments, throw off his tight uniform, slip on a 
dressing-gown of scarlet and gold brocade, and begin to 
play on his beloved flute. In his rooms he often found 
his teacher Quantz awaiting him, and then for a time 
his troubles were forgotten in the soothing tones of the 
great flutist. One day both master and pupil were prac- 
tising together a difficult passage, when Katte rushed in 
breathless. 

'The king is on the stairs,' he panted, snatching up 
flutes and music, and hiding them in the wood closet. 
In an instant Fritz had flung his dressing-gown behind 
a screen, and put on his coat; but he could not manage 
to tie his hair, which he had loosened, and which hung 
about his face, in a way that the king disHked. The 
confused bearing of all three naturally attracted Fred- 
erick William's attention, and, bursting into a fit of rage 
that rendered him almost speechless, he kicked down 
the screen in front of him. 'I knew it,' he shouted, catch- 
ing up the dressing-gown, and thrusting it into the fire 
where he stamped it down with his heavy boot. Then, 
sweeping a pile of French novels from a little table, he 
thrust them into the arms of the gentleman-in-waiting, 
bidding him send them back at once to the bookseller; 
for even in his wrath the king did not forget to be 
economical. 

After this affair father and son were on worse terms 
than ever. It was not at all an uncommon thing for Fred- 
erick William to throw plates at the heads of his children 
when they vexed him, and one evening, after dinner, as 
he was being pushed about in a wheel-chair during an 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 



220 



attack of gout, he aimed a blow with his crutch at Wil- 
helmine. The girl sprang aside, and it fell harmless, but 
this only increased the king's fury, and he called to the 
attendants to push his chair quickly so that he might 




^&- ^tantpedj Cf down, with Tiis /iea.m^ bootr 



prevent her reaching the door. They dared not disobey, 
but contrived to find so many obstacles in the way that 
the princess was able to escape. As to Fritz, he was 
struck by his father almost daily, and on one occasion, 



230 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

about a month before the prince's eighteenth birthday, 
when the young man entered the room, his father 
leaped at his throat, dragged him by the hair, beat 
him violently with his stick, and forced him to kneel 
down and beg his pardon — for what offence the crown 
prince did not know! Not content with this, the king 
exulted in his son's misery, and even told him that worse 
was in store. 

It is hardly wonderful that under these circumstances 
the prince felt that his life was in danger, and began to 
form plans of escape; but they were so badly laid and 
so transparent, that everybody could guess what was 
happening, and three or four times he was forced to give 
them up. His favourite project was to reach France and 
go next to London, where he was sure of protection, and 
in all this his principal confidant was his friend Katte. 
Early in July the king started for Potsdam, taking the 
crown prince with him. After remaining there a few days, 
he announced his intention of making a progress by way 
of Wesel, and this gave Fritz the idea that from Wesel he 
could gain Holland and cross to England. He managed 
to obtain a secret interview with Katte, and it was arranged 
that they should write to each other through a cousin of 
Katte's, of the same name, who was recruiting near An- 
spach, as they knew the king intended to stop at this city 
and visit his daughter who had married the margrave the 
year before. 

The king spent a week at Anspach, during which time 
he was busy with the affairs of the young couple, whom 
it would have been much wiser to have left to themselves. 
Fritz meanwhile was fuming at the delay, but tried to 
turn it to account by gaining over the page Keith to his 
service. It was settled between them that young Keith 
should take advantage of his position to secure some 
horses, and the crown prince wrote to Katte that he was 
to go in a few days to the Hague and there inquire for a 
certain count d'Alberville — for under this name Fritz 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 231 

proposed to travel. Keith was ordered to join him there 
also, and from the Hague they would slip across almost 
before their absence was discovered. Unluckily all the 
hardships he had suffered had not yet turned Fritz into 
a man. Passionately though he longed to escape from 
his father's tyranny, he still expected Hfe to be hke the 
French novels he was so fond of, and from one of which 
the name of count d'Alberville was taken. So, instead 
of putting on an old suit of clothes, in which he might 
have passed unnoticed, he ordered a fine new red cloak 
for himself, and a blue one for young Keith, to wear on 
the great occasion. 

From Anspach they went to visit the duke of Wurttem- 
berg, and thence set out for Mannheim, where the 
elector palatine was awaiting them. Fritz had arranged 
to make his flight from a place called Sinsheim, but, to 
his dismay, the king announced that he meant to push 
on to Steinfurth, which was nearer Mannheim. The 
whole royal party slept in two barns, and more than once 
Fritz almost gave up his plan in despair, so impossible 
it seemed for him to steal away without waking some- 
body. However, they were very tired after their long 
day's journey, and slept soundly, all except Fritz's valet, 
Gummersbach, who, hearing a sound soon after two, 
awoke with a start to see the crown prince dressing 
himself. 

' But your Royal Highness ' stammered Gummers- 
bach, in surprise, rising to his feet. 

'If I choose to get up it is no business of yours,' re- 
phed Fritz, in an angry whisper. ' Give me my red cloak, 
I am going to the king.' And he crept softly from the 
barn, never hearing Gummersbach's answer that the king 
intended to start at five instead of three. The valet 
said nothing, but hastened to wake Rochow, the prince's 
tutor, who was lying on some straw with all his clothes 
on. 

'What is the matter?' cried he. 



232 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

'Quick! quick! sir, the prince!' was all Gummersbach 
could answer, and without wasting time in questions Ro- 
chow rushed away in the direction of an open green space 
in front of the farm. Seeing in the dim light the 
outline of two heavy carriages, he altered his pace, and 
strolled carelessly up to young Keith, who was holding 
two horses. 

*Whom are these for?' asked Rochow politely. 

'They are for myself and the other page to accompany 
his Majesty,' answered the boy. 

'Ah, yes,, of course; but you should have been informed 
that his Majesty does not intend to start till five to-day, 
so you had better take them back to the stables.' And, 
unwilling though he was, Keith was forced to obey, espe- 
cially as some of the generals in the king's suite had come 
on the scene, and advanced to one of the carriages against 
which Fritz was leaning. 

'Can we be of any use to your Royal Highness?' asked 
Rochow respectfully; but, with an oath, the prince brushed 
him aside, and throwing off the red cloak that covered 
him, went straight to the place where his father was sleep- 
ing. He may have thought that the officers would say 
nothing in his presence, and indeed they were mostly on 
his side, and far from anxious to make things worse for 
him. 

'Is it so late?' asked the king, who was still lying on 
the rough bed, wrapped in a large coat. 'Well, your 
carriage is heavier than mine, so you had better start 
early.' 

The prince bowed and went out, but contrived to delay 
on one pretext or another, so that the king's own carriage 
was brought up first to the gate of the farm, and soon his 
Majesty was on the road to Mannheim. All the way 
the king expected to catch up his son, but even when Fritz 
was not found at Heidelberg he suspected nothing, and 
his only uneasiness was in the fear that the prince had 
entered Mannheim without him. When, however, he 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 233 

reached the city himself, at eight in the evening, and there 
was still no Fritz, he grew seriously disturbed, and to 
quiet him, the elector sent some of his servants to look 
for the crown prince. At half-past ten the whole party 
appeared, Fritz tired and very sulky, but as determined 
as ever not to remain a moment more than could be helped 
in his father's power. He had hoped for a chance of 
flight along the road, but none presented itself, and now 
he was resolved to begin all over again. Once more a 
message was sent to young Keith to be ready with the 
horses as soon as he received a signal, but the page was 
not cast in the same mould as his master. In mortal 
terror of his life, he threw himself at the king's feet, con- 
fessed the whole plot, and implored forgiveness. For 
once in his career Frederick William managed to control 
his temper; he would have his son closely watched, but 
he should not be arrested till he was on Prussian soil; 
yet all through the rest of the tour Fritz was well aware 
that someone had betrayed him. Immediately on their 
arrival at Wesel, the prince was put under arrest, and 
sent, without once being allowed to leave the travelling 
carriage, to the castle of Spandau, whence he was after- 
wards removed to Ciistrin. General Buddenbrock was 
appointed his gaoler, and ordered to shoot him dead in 
case of a rescue. 

And where was Wilhelmine all this time, and what 
was she doing? Well, she was at Berhn, still very weak 
and sickly from a bad attack of smallpox the year before, 
and the severity of the treatment which followed it. The 
king remained always fixed in his determination to find 
a husband for her; if not the prince of Wales, then the 
margrave of Schwedt, the margrave of Baireuth, who was 
young and agreeable, or, best of all, the duke of Weissen- 
feld, not so young, and perhaps not so agreeable, but the 
man most favoured by Frederick Wilham. 'After all, 
marriage is not of such great importance,' said one of her 



234 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

ladies to the princess, in well-meant consolation. 'Nobody 
makes such a fuss about it elsewhere. A husband that 
you can turn and twist as you like is an excellent thing 
to have, and however angry the queen may be now, when 
once the thing is over she will make up her mind to it. 
So take my advice, and accept the hand of the duke of 
Weissenfeld, and you will please everybody.' But Wil- 
helmine did not agree with madame la Ramen. She knew 
too much about marriage to think that the choice of a 
husband mattered nothing, and she had not the slightest 
intention of sacrificing her whole life to the whims of her 
very changeable father. So she gave a vague answer to 
the earnest entreaties of madame la Ramen, and let the 
subject drop. 

On the evening of August ii, the princess entered the 
palace from the garden, where she had passed several 
hours, feeling excited and melancholy by turns; why, she 
could not imagine, as everything was going on as usual. 
Therefore, she did not, as usual, go straight to her rooms, 
but instead, ordered a carriage and drove to Montbijou 
where a concert was taking place. In this way she missed 
the strange events that were happening in her mother's 
apartments. Let Wilhelmine tell her own story; it is a 
very surprising one : — 

'That night the queen was seated before her dressing- 
table having her hair brushed, with madame von Biilow 
beside her, when they heard a fearful noise in the next 
room. This room was used as a kind of museum, and 
was filled with precious stones and gems, and some very 
rare and tall Chinese and Japanese vases. Her Majesty 
thought at first that one of these vases must have been 
knocked over, and have been broken in pieces on the 
polished floor, and she bade madame la Ramen go and 
see who had done it, but, to her amazement, on entering 
the museum, the lady-in-waiting found everything undis- 
turbed. Scarcely had she rejoined the queen when the 
noise began afresh, louder than before, and madame la 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 235 

Ramen ran back, accompanied by another of the queen's 
attendants, only to discover all in perfect order, and the 
room dark and still. Three times this occurred, and then 
the noise ceased in the museum altogether, to start again 
far more loudly in the corridor which led from the queen's 
apartments to those of the king. At each end of this corridor 
stood a sentinel, to prevent anyone passing but the ser- 
vants on duty, so the disturbance was all the more strange. 

'"Bring lights, and we will pass down the corridor," 
said the queen to her ladies, and left her room, followed 
by all but madame la Ramen, who hid herself, in a great 
fright. But hardly had they stepped across the thres- 
hold when fearful groans and cries broke out around 
them. The ladies trembled at the sound, and the guards 
at each end were half-dead with fright; but the queen's 
calmness made them all ashamed, and when she ordered 
them to try the doors along the corridor, they obeyed in 
silence. Each door was locked, and when the key was 
turned and the room entered, it was empty. Her 
majesty then questioned the guards, who confessed that 
the groans had sounded close to them, but they had seen 
nothing, and with that she was forced to be content, and 
to return to her own apartments, rather angry at having 
been disturbed in vain. Next morning she told me the 
story, and though not in the least superstitious, ordered 
me to write down the date of the occurrence. I am quite 
sure that there must be some simple explanation, but it 
is curious that the affair happened during the very night 
that my brother was arrested, and a most painful scene 
between the king and queen afterwards took place in this 
very corridor.' 

It was at a ball given by the queen at Montbijou, five 
days later, that she learned the terrible news. 'It was 
six years since I had danced,' says Wilhelmine, 'and I 
flung myself into it without paying attention to anything 
else, or to the repeated wishes of madame von Blilow, who 
told me it was time for me to go to bed. 



236 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

'"Why are you so cross to-night?" I asked, at length; 
"I don't know what to make of you!'" 

'"Look at, the queen," she replied, "and you will be 
answered." I turned and looked, and grew cold and 
white at the sight of her, standing rigid in a corner of 
the ball-room between two of her ladies. In a moment 
more she bent her head and said good-night to her 
guests, then walked to her carriage, making a sign to 
me to follow her. Not a word did we utter all the way 
to the palace; I thought my brother must be dead, and 
in this terrible silence and uncertainty my heart began 
to palpitate so furiously that I felt as if I should be 
suffocated.' 

For some time her ladies, under the queen's orders, 
refused to tell Wilhelmine what had happened, but seeing 
the poor giil was firmly convinced of the prince's death, 
madame von Sonsfeld informed her that letters had ar- 
rived from the king, stating that the crown prince had 
been arrested, as he was attempting to escape. Next day 
they learned that Katte also had been taken prisoner, 
but Keith cleverly managed to place himself under the 
protection of the English ambassador to the Hague, lord 
Chesterfield, and to pass over to England in his suite. 
When the shock of the news was passed, the first thought 
of both the queen and Wilhelmine was for the numerous 
letters they had written to the prince, in which they had 
said many bitter and imprudent things about the king's 
behaviour. Wilhelmine hoped they had been burned, as 
she had always bidden Fritz to do the moment he received 
them; but the queen feared that they might have been 
entrusted to Katte (as he was known to have in his care 
many of the prince's possessions), and in this case they 
must be got from him at all cost, or the crown prince's 
head would certainly pay forfeit. The queen was right: 
the letters were among Katte's papers, with the official seal 
placed upon them. 

In this desperate plight, Sophia Dorothea threw her- 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 237 

self upon the generosity of marshal Natzmar, Katte's 
superior. No direct answer was received, and the queen 
and Wilhelmine were almost ill with anxiety, when, one 
day, when the princess was alone with madame von 
Sonsfeld, the countess von Fink entered bearing a heavy 
portfolio. 

'It is most mysterious,' said she, sinking into a chair 
with her burden; 'when I went into my room last night I 
found this great portfolio, with a chain and seals round it, 
addressed to the queen, and this note for you, madame. 
As I did not like to disturb her Majesty I have brought 
them to you.' 

Wilhelmine's heart beat with excitement, but she dared 
not betray herself. She took the note quietly, and read 
its contents, which were very short. 'Have the goodness, 
madame, to deKver this portfolio to the queen. It con- 
tains the letters which she and the princess have written 
to the crown prince.' 

Carrying the portfolio, and grumbling all the while as 
to the unknown risks she might be running, countess 
von Fink followed Wilhelmine and madame von Sonsfeld 
into the presence of the queen, whose joy was boundless 
on receiving the precious letters. But in a few minutes 
her face clouded over again, as she perceived that many 
difficulties still lay before her. First, there were the spies 
by whom the king had surrounded them; they would at 
once detect the absence of so large an object. Then there 
was the danger that Katte would mention the letters in 
the cross-examination he would have to undergo, and once 
their existence was known, and madame von Fink ques- 
tioned, the prince's cause was lost, and his mother and 
sister might have to undergo imprisonment for life. What 
could be done? All day long plan after plan was thought 
of and rejected, but at length it was Wilhelmine who hit 
upon one that might do. The portfolio was openly to 
lie in the queen's apartments as if it had been brought to 
her for safe custody, and then, with great precautions, 



238 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

the seal could be raised without breaking it, and the chain 
filed through where it could easily be joined again. 
Then the letters could be taken out, and others, quite 
harmless, written and put back in their place. Clever 
though it all sounded, it would have been impossible 
to carry out the scheme had it not been for a most lucky 
accident which had befallen the queen's confidential valet 
Bock, who was called in to raise the seal. On examining 
the coat-of-arms on the wax he recognised it as the 
same engraved on a seal he had picked up four weeks 
earlier in the garden at Montbijou, and which, he 
now discovered, belonged to Katte. By this means the 
wax could be broken and re-sealed without the slightest 
risk. 

The letters were now in the hands of the queen and 
princess, and were to the full as dangerous as they had 
expected to find them; but there was no time to spare for 
lamenting their folly if they were to have others ready to 
await the king on his return. Of course, there was no 
need to replace the whole fifteen hundred; but a great 
deal had to be done, and without delay Wilhelmine and 
her mother sat down to write a large number, taking care 
to obtain paper with the proper water-mark of every year. 
In three days they had seven hundred ready, and in order 
to give the impression that they wished to conceal the 
letters, the queen filled up the portfolio with handkerchiefs 
and various articles of fine linen. 

All was now ready for the arrival of the king, and when 
the day and hour was fixed the queen awaited him in 
her apartments. As soon as he reached the threshold, 
he shouted out: 'Well, Madame, your wretched son is 
dead.' 

'Dead!' repeated the queen, clutching at a chair as 
she spoke. 'Dead! you have had the heart to kill 
him?' 

'Yes, I tell you,' was his answer; 'and I want the port- 
folio containing his letters.' 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 239 

Hardly able to walk, the queen went to fetch the 
portfoHo, which the king slashed in pieces and took out 
the letters. Then, without another word, he walked 
away. 

'Have you heard? Fritz is dead!' said the queen to 
Wilhelmine, in a terrible voice that seemed dead also. 
The princess fainted at the horrible news, but when she 
recovered her senses, madame von Sonsfeld whispered not 
to be afraid, as she had reason to know that the prince, 
though strictly guarded, was alive and well. These words 
put fresh Hfe into the hearts of his mother and sister, and 
enabled Wilhelmine to bear the blows and kicks which 
her father showered upon her, till he was dragged off 
by his other children. Then he confessed that Fritz 
was still living, and accused Wilhelmine of having 
been his accompHce in an act of high treason against 
the king's person. This was more than the poor girl could 
bear. 

'I will marry anyone you Kke,' she cried, 'if you will 
only spare my brother's life — the duke of Weissenfeld, 
or anybody else; it is all the same to me.' But the king 
was deaf to everything but the sound of his own voice, 
and did not hear her, and a moment after Katte, pale and 
calm, passed the window, under the guard of four soldiers, 
for his examination by the king. 

Frederick WilHam behaved with his usual brutality, 
even kicking the unhappy prisoner, who threw himself at 
his feet, confessing his own part in the plot, but denying 
that Wilhelmine had any part in it. He acknowledged, 
however, that by the prince's orders he had sent the letters 
to her, and these were closely examined by the minister 
Grumkow, 'in the hope,' says Wilhelmine, 'of finding 
something that would condemn us.' But the closest scru- 
tiny revealed nothing of the least importance, though the 
king was still suspicious, and commanded the princess 
to keep her room till he had time to question her 
further. 



240 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

Meanwhile the crown prince was locked up in the 
fortress of CiJstrin, and obliged to obey a set of those 
minute rules which Frederick William loved to draw up. 

* Every morning at eight a basin and a little water, to 
wash himself with, is to be taken to his cell by a 
scullion'; and this seems to have been the only washing 
allowed him by the king, who is always reproaching him 
for his dirty habits. Two meals, one at twelve and the 
other at six, were all he was allowed, and 'his food is to 
be cut up before he has it.' Several times a day he was 
visited by the officers in charge, but they were strictly 
forbidden to speak to him. By-and-bye the king declared 
that the prisoner had forfeited his right to the Prussian 
crown, and ordered him to be spoken of as 'colonel 
Frederick.' 

At last a council was appointed to try both the prince 
and Katte, and Keith — if they could get him! The trial 
was long, and at the end of it Katte was condemned to 
death for intended desertion, but strongly recommended to 
mercy. With regard to the prince they considered that, 
as he had been deprived of his military rank and suffered 
many months of close imprisonment, he was sufficiently 
punished, especially as he had expressed his willingness 

* to do all that His Majesty requires or commands.' Touch- 
ing the charge of disobedience, the council dechned to pass 
judgment. 

The recommendation to mercy was not heeded. Katte's 
grandfather, field marshal von Alvensleben, wrote a touch- 
ing letter begging for his life, and recalling the many occa- 
sions on which he himself had risked his own in the service 
of Prussia. He received a reply stating that Katte deserved 
'to be torn with red-hot pincers,' as was the law in Prussia, 
'but that, "out of consideration" for his father and grand- 
father, his head should be cut off.' This document is 
signed 'Your very affectionate king.' Probably nothing 
that Frederick the Great ever endured in his whole life 
was as bitter as the scene which his father had pre- 




FKEDE.R1CK BIDS P/\KE\s^LL TO K/\:TTE 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 243 

pared for him. Katte was to be beheaded under the 
windows of the crown prince's prison. If the span was 
too narrow, another place was to be chosen, 'but so 
that the prince can see well.' For this purpose the con- 
demned man was to take a two days' journey to Ciistrin, 
but, perhaps by the mercy of his gaolers, Frederick was 
told nothing till he was awakened at five o'clock on the 
morning of November 6, and informed that Katte had 
been in Ciistrin since the previous day, and was to be 
executed at seven. The unexpected news upset the prince 
completely. He wept and wrung his hands, and begged 
that the execution might be delayed till he could send 
a courier to the king at Wustershausen. He offered to 
resign the crown, to suffer perpetual imprisonment, even 
to sacrifice his own life, if only he might save that of 
Katte. The officers were full of pity, but they were power- 
less. 

Gently but firmly he was at length forced to the window 
beneath which the block stood, between the prison and 
the river Oder. Then Katte appeared, a minister on 
each side of him, holding his hat under his arm. As he 
passed the window he looked up, and Frederick flung 
himself across the bars, crying 'Katte! Katte! forgive 
me.' 

'There is nothing to forgive, my prince,' answered Katte, 
bowing; and he walked steadily on to his place in the 
centre of the little group of soldiers, w^here his sentence 
was read. He took off his wig, replacing it with a white 
cap, and opened his shirt collar. A soldier came forward 
to bind his eyes, but he motioned him away, and 
knelt quietly on the sand before him, waiting for the sword 
to fall. But Frederick did not 'see well,' for he had 
fainted. 

In a few days whispers were heard in the court of 
BerHn that the crown prince had been 'pardoned' by 
his father for his wickedness in trying to run away — 
which he never would have thought of doing had he not 



244 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

suffered such abominable treatment. He remained for a 
little time yet at Custrin, but was allowed to have books 
— and better light to read them by. No doubt the king 
took for granted that, after the severe lesson his son had 
received, the 'books' would be works on fortifications 
or strategy, or something useful of that kind. Had he 
known that philosophical treatises, Aristotle's 'Poetica' 
and Moliere's plays, were among them, another explosion 
would probably have occurred. And what would he have 
said if it had reached his ears that the prince had written 
a long poem in French called 'Advice to Myself,' dedi- 
cated to Grumkow, whom he hated? • The poem is really 
not bad, considering, and one cannot help wondering if 
Grumkow guessed that the royal prisoner was making 
fun of him. In a little while he was set free, and even 
nominated to a seat on the council of war, but he was 
not yet admitted to Berhn. Poor boy! he was only nine- 
teen even now, but he had learned that if he was ever to 
live at peace with his father he must give up all his own 
tastes and pleasures, and submit body and soul to the 
king's will. 

During these dreadful months Wilhelmine had been 
kept entirely in her room, and if we may believe her own 
account, which perhaps it is better not to do altogether, 
she was half starved, and thankful to eat a crust which 
a crow had left on the window-sill. 'In general,' she 
says, 'the dinner of myself and my lady-in-waiting con- 
sisted of bones without any meat on them, and plain water.' 
Besides her anxiety about the fate of her brother, the 
princess had been tormented with fears as to her own 
marriage, for the king had made up his mind that she 
should no longer be on his hands. The queen still 
obstinately clung to the old project of having the prince 
of Wales as her son-in-law; but the king contrived to 
break off the negotiations, greatly to the wrath of Sophia 
Dorothea, as well as of Wilhelmine herself, who shared 
her mother's opinion that to accept any husband who 



FREDERICK AND WILTIELMINE 24.5 

was not of royal l^irth would be impossible to one of her 
rank. 

But who the bridegroom was really to be was a question 
that remained undecided. Sometimes it seemed as if the 
choice would fall upon a member of the House of Bran- 
denburg, the margrave of Schwedt; but at the very moment 
when this appeared most hkely the king sent a message 
to Wilhelmine, by his porter, announcing that she was to 
l^ecome the wife of the fat and elderly duke of Weissenfeld, 
a prince of the Empire. The princess was terribly upset 
— partly by the news itself and partly by the messenger 
whom the king had chosen to break it to her; but 
the next morning her anger was redoubled, on receiving 
a second visit from the porter, while she was still in bed, 
informing her that he had been ordered by His Maj- 
esty to prepare her trousseau! Wilhelmine was speech- 
less with rage, and refused to send any answer. Then, 
shutting herself into her boudoir, or cabinet, as it was 
called, she began to play on her spinet, in order to calm 
herself a little. 

'Four gentlemen are below, madame, and beg that you 
will do them the honour of seeing them alone,' cried 
madame von Sonsfeld, suddenly opening the door. The 
princess rose, feehng that something of serious import- 
ance was about to happen, and there entered Grumkow, 
followed by three other ministers. He declared solemnly 
(what she knew already) that the EngHsh marriage was 
abandoned, and that the king was forced to choose a hus- 
band for her from another house; that the fate of the crown 
prince, now undergoing a strict imprisonment at Ciistrin, 
depended on the wilHngness of the princess to obey His 
Majesty's desire, which Grumkow earnestly hoped she 
would do, as otherwise it would be his painful duty to 
carry her off at once to the fortress of Memel. Finally, 
he announced that the king's choice had fallen on the 
hereditary prince of Baireuth — rich, young, and a cousin 
of her own. After begging for a short time for considera- 



246 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

tion, Wilhelmine agreed to do as her father wished, and 
on his return to Berhn, a few days later, he behaved to her 
with much affection — for the first time for many years. 
The queen, on the contrary, vowed she would no longer 
look on Wilhelmine as a daughter, and on the sudden 
appearance at Berhn of the prince of Baireuth, on the 
eve of a great review, was so rude to him that he told her 
politely, but with spirit, that if she objected so much to 
receiving him into her family he would withdraw his request 
for the hand of her daughter. The queen saw that she had 
met her match, and accordingly changed her behaviour. 
When she had once seen the prince, Wilhelmine's sad- 
ness began to disappear, and she began to think that her 
future Hfe might be tolerably happy. The bridegroom 
had a pleasant, frank face, and good manners; he was 
besides tall and well-made, and had a good education. 
The betrothal took place at seven o'clock on June 3, 1731, 
in the palace, and the king, who had got his own way, 
was quite charming and affectionate, and gave his daugh- 
ter a magnificent toilette service of gold, besides other 
presents. The marriage itself was not to be till November 
— for what reason we are not told, but most probably 
the delay was owing to some underhand schemes of the 
queen, who hoped that it might still be broken off. How- 
ever, the prince of Baireuth was appointed colonel of a 
Prussian regiment, which gave him an excuse for staying 
in the neighbourhood, and the morning after the betrothal 
he asked Wilhelmine if he might see her alone. The 
few words that he spoke did him honour, and must have 
sounded strange indeed in the ears of the princess. He 
only wished, he said, for her happiness, and would do all 
in his power to secure it, and to deserve the trust which 
she and her father had given him. Affection had hitherto 
played such a small part in Wilhelmine's life, that she 
did not know what to answer; but it must have thawed 
her poor frozen heart a little, for that evening at supper 
she 'pulled a cracker' with the prince. But this sign 



FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 247 

of good spirits was more than the queen could bear, 
and she bade her daughter follow her out of the room, scold- 
ing her roundly, as they went, for her want of modesty. 

The long months passed somehow, and to the rehef 
of everybody (except the queen) the wedding-day (fixed 
for November 20) arrived. 'When dinner was over,' 
says Wilhelmine, 'the king ordered the queen to begin to 
dress me, for it was already four o'clock, and the ceremony 
was fixed for seven. The queen declared that she meant 
to do my hair herself, but she was not clever with her 
fingers, and could not manage it. Then her ladies tried 
their hands, but as soon as they had dressed it properly 
the queen would pull it about, so that it had to be done 
all over again. At last, however, between them they 
contrived to make twenty-four large curls, each as thick 
as your arm, with a royal crown poised on top. The 
weight w^as dreadful, and I could hardly hold my head 
up. Then they put on my dress, which was of cloth of 
silver, trimmed with Spanish point picked out with gold, 
my train, twelve yards long, being held up by four ladies.' 
Hardly able to stir under all this grandeur, the bride moved 
as best she could through six magnificent galleries, in the 
last of which the ceremony was performed. A ball then 
followed, but as Wilhelmine could not possibly have danced 
to save her Kfe owing to the weight of her clothes, the 
bridegroom opened it with her sister the margravine of 
Anspach. 

The festivities w^ere kept up for several days, and on 
the 23rd another ball took place, at w^hich seven hundred 
people were present. This time Wilhelmine who, as we 
know, loved dancing, did not allow her dress to interfere, 
and she was in the middle of a minuet when Grumkow 
approached her. 

'Your feet seem to dance of themselves, madame,' he 
said roughly; 'don't you see that strangers are present?' 

Wilhelmine stopped and stared at a young man whose 
face was unknown to her. 



248 FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE 

'Go and embrace the crown prince,' said Grumkow. 
And she went. 




il^dniEK, S.>SI5TEK,nEE.TA(4KlN 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

On the day that the whole of Lisbon was convulsed by 
the most terrible earthquake that Europe has ever seen 
— and by the tidal wave that followed after it — a little 
daughter was born, far away in Vienna, to the empress 
Maria Theresa. The baby, who bore the names of Marie 
Antoinette Josepha Jeanne, was the youngest of several 
children; and three of her brothers, as well as her father 
Francis, wore the Imperial crown. From the first she 
was her father's favourite, and, as far as he was able to 
find leisure for her, his companion. Of course, being em- 
peror, there were a great many duties which he had to 
perform, but he was not so clever at business as his wife, 
who was the heiress of Austria and Hungary. 

'We will die for our king Maria Theresa,' shouted 
the Hungarian parhament, when she first appeared 
before themi; and a 'king' she was till the day of her 
death. 

The empress was a good mother, and was very fond 
of her children; but she could not have them much with 
her when they were little. Sometimes a whole week would 
slip by without her seeing them, but they had an excellent 
doctor of their own, who visited them daily, and made 
careful reports about their health. Maria Theresa was also 
most anxious about their being properly taught, but un- 
luckily she was deceived in their governesses, who were 
good-natured, lazy people. 'The children were so clever,' 
these ladies would say one to the other, ' they really could 
do without learning lessons Hke other girls. And besides, 

^249 



250 UNE REINE MALHEU REUSE 

were they not princesses, and what need had they to be 
always poring over books?' So Marie Antoinette and her 
sisters bade fair to grow up in perfect ignorance of every- 
thing except Itahan, in which Metastasio the poet was 
their master. 

This state of things might have gone on much longer 
had not Marie Antionette remarked one day, in her 
mother's hearing, that her copies were always pencilled 
for her before she wrote them. This startled the em- 
press, and, in her usual energetic manner, she began 
making inquiries as to the methods of teaching pursued 
by her daughter's governesses. The end of it was that 
these ladies were dismissed, and the Comtesse de Brandes, 
a clever and trustworthy woman, took charge of the 
education of the young archduchess. The change was 
very much for the better, but it came rather late for 
Marie Antoinette. She had never been forced to fix her 
attention steadily upon anything, or to do anything that 
she did not like. The slightest sound would distract her 
thoughts, and she would break off in the midst of the 
'History of the Thirty Years' War,' or the account of the 
appearance of John Sobieski before the walls of Vienna, 
to wonder if she would be allowed to appear at the 
approaching fete, or what operas would be given in 
the coming week. For Marie Antoinette, Hke all her 
family, w^as extremely fond of music, and though she 
could never play well herself on any instrument, she 
had a sweet voice, which was carefully cultivated. When 
she was nearly seven years old there was great ex- 
citement in the palace of Schonbriinn, near Vienna, at 
the news that a little boy called Mozart, younger even 
than Marie Antoinette, was coming from Salzburg to play 
to them. 'What instrument did he play on? Oh! both 
the harpsichord (a sort of piano), and the violin. And 
he could compose too! Think of that, at six years old! 
Would Wednesday never come, that they might hear 
him!' 




I PJ^AKIC /\rJT01N)£TTE. MTltJ jnoXA-tCT.^ j^ 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 253 

Wednesday did come, after long waiting, and there 
entered a little figure in court dress, with a wig and 
sword all complete. He was followed by his father and 
mother, and sister Marianne, who, though five years older 
than himself, was far more shy than he was. Wolfgang, 
indeed, w^as not shy at all: it was his music he was 
thinking of, not himself; he" came forward towards 
the harpsichord, stopping, when he remembered his man- 
ners, to make a funny Httle bow right and left. The 
archdukes and their sisters gazed at him as if he was a 
being from another world, and could hardly contain their 
delight when the emperor mentioned a short composi- 
tion which the boy was to play with one finger. It could 
not have been very interesting, but it was a very difficult 
thing to do, and Wolfgang did it to perfection. When 
it was over, he wriggled down off his high stool, and 
bowed three times, waiting for the emperor to tell him 
what he wished for next. Francis praised his cleverness, 
then, taking up a piece of silk from a chair, he said: 
'See, I will arrange this over the keys, and you must 
play me a minuet without looking at the notes.' This 
was just the sort of thing that pleased Wolfgang; he 
gave a Httle laugh of satisfaction, and wriggled on to his 
stool again. In a moment the notes rang out clear, and 
the children looked at each other and longed to dance to 
them. 

'Well done, my boy,' cried the emperor; 'now you 
shall choose.' Then Wolfgang turned to a composer 
attached to the court who had been eagerly watching his 
fingers. 

*I will play a concerto of yours, and you must turn 
over for me.' And when the concerto was over, and the 
Emperor inquired how he had liked the performance, the 
musician answered in the heartiest tones, that never had 
it sounded so well. 

'I think so, too,' said the empress, and signed to the 
child to go over to her. In his haste to obey he slipped 



254 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

on the shining floor, and fell down, his sword clattering 
as if it had been a man's. Marie Antoinette, who was 
nearest to him, ran to pick him up, and he thanked her 
with a smile, saying: 'You are very kind; I should Hke to 
marry you.' Then, without waiting for a reply, walked 
with careful steps up to the empress, and jumped on her 
lap. 

Wolfgang was a great man when he returned to Salz- 
burg, and everybody he saw asked the same questions 
about the imperial family. 

'And when you had finished, what did her majesty say 
to you?' 

'She said, "Are you tired?"' 

'And what did you answer?' 

'I said "No, your majesty."' 

'Did she say nothing more?' 

'She said "You play very well."' 

'And what did you reply to that .?' 

'I said, "Thank you, your majesty.'" 

For some time after little Mozart went away the beau- 
tifully painted stool in front of the harpsichord was never 
empty; but by-and-by the children's zeal wore off, and 
their mother was too busy to see that they practised daily. 
They passed most of their time at Schonbriinn, which 
both the emperor and empress preferred to Vienna, and it 
was so near the capital that ministers and ambassadors 
' could easily drive out to consult them when needful. In 
their leisure moments, which were few, it rested them to 
watch the growth of their flowers, or to plan alterations 
in their garden, while the empress would sometimes go to 
see the poor in their cottages, and take Marie Antoinette 
with her. 

But, in the summer of 1765, when the Httle archduchess 
was nine years old, a break suddenly occurred in their 
peaceful, happy life. The emperor was obliged to go to 
Innspriick, and had already bidden farewell to his family 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE U5 

and entered his carriage, when he suddenly ordered the 
coachman to stop. 

'Be kind enough to bring me the Archduchess Marie 
Antoinette,' he said to the equerry; and soon the Httle 
girl was flying down the road. 'Good-bye, my darling, 
good-bye,' he whispered, taking her in his arms; 'now 
run home again.' And as she disappeared round a comer 
he remarked to his equerry: 'I just wanted to see her once 
more.' 

It was as if he had guessed what would befall him, for, 
shortly after, news was received that he had died on his 
journey. The empress had loved her husband dearly, but 
she was not the sort of person to shut herself up with her 
grief, and before the year was out an event happened 
which occupied all her thoughts. This was a hint let 
fall by Louis XV., king of France, of a marriage, by-and-bye, 
between his grandson the dauphin and Marie Antoinette. 
The plan was to be kept entirely secret for the present, 
but the empress was greatly pleased, unlike the bride- 
groom's mother, or his aunt the strong-willed madame 
Adelaide. The dauphine, mother of the young Louis, was 
a Saxon princess, and wished her son to marry his Saxon 
cousin. The dauphin, a good-natured, heavy, ill-man- 
nered youth, did not wish to marry anybody, or indeed 
do anything except hunt — but he was not consulted. 
Still, out of respect to his daughter-in-law (and perhaps 
because he was a little afraid of her), the French king 
kept a profound silence on the matter to all but the em- 
press, till things were suddenly altered by the death of 
the dauphine in 1767. Then, no one knew how, the 
marriage began to be spoken of in Paris, and much more 
openly at Vienna, to the great embarrassment of the French 
ambassador. Louis XV. had already an Austrian great- 
granddaughter, for the emperor Joseph II. had some 
years before married the Infanta Isabel, and they had 
one Httle girl, named Maria Theresa, after her grand- 
mother. Unfortunately the young empress was seized 



256 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

with smallpox, which was the scourge of those times, and 
died, while her sister-in-law, the Archduchess Josepha, 
likewise fell a victim to the same disease a few days later, 
just as she was starting off to be married. Joseph, in 
terror lest his little girl should be the next victim, had 
her inoculated, as people were before vaccination was 
introduced, and wrote to tell Louis XV., who was very 
anxious about her, that she was getting on very well. 
With his letter went one from the httle archduchess 
herself. 

*I know, dear grandpapa, that you love me, so I write 
to tell you that I am quite w^ell, and that I had only fifty 
spots, which I am very glad of. How I wish I could 
show them to you, and hug you, for I am very fond of 
you.' 

Now, although not a word had been said to Marie An- 
toinette as to the fate that was in store for her, she was 
quite clever enough to guess a -great deal that was hap- 
pening. In the first place two French actors arrived in 
Vienna to teach her how to speak clearly and prettily. 
They were followed by the abbe de Vermond, who in- 
structed her in the history of France and its literature, 
while the celebrated Noverre gave her lessons in dancing 
and the French mode of curtseying, which was far more 
difficult to learn than the curtsey practised in Vienna. 
Marie Antoinette delighted in the hours she spent over 
her dancing, and those passed in playing on the clavecin, 
under Gliick, whose opera of 'Orfeo' had just been finished; 
but her new teachers found the same fault that the old 
ones had done, that she must have everything told 
her Uke a child if it was to dwell in her memory. She 
never got impatient or cross, in fact she tried to turn 
everything into a joke; but the abbe discovered her to 
be ignorant and inattentive, and though she had plenty of 
good sense, she disliked being made to think. And in all 
this she was not different from a hundred thousand other 
little girls! 



UNE RRINE MALHEU REUSE 



<ir>i 



At length, in September 1768, the King of France made 
a formal proposal for the hand of the archduchess, who 
was not yet thirteen years old, and the empress wrote 




to count Mercy d'Argenteau, her ambassador in Paris, to 
give orders for the trousseau, on which she was prepared 
to lay out 16,000/. As the wedding was not to take place 
18 



258 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

for a year and a half at any rate, this seems a little early 
to begin, but there was so much beautiful lace to be made, 
and wonderful embroidery to be done, that the workers 
did not think the time any too long. Then her brother 
Joseph II. often came into her private sitting-room in 
the evening and talked to her about European pohtics, of 
which, he truly said, she ought to know something, or the 
abbe de Vermond was bidden to join the family in the 
evening and relate the Hves of the French queens, and 
the genealogy of the Bourbons and Valois, besides the 
names of the chief officers of state and of the great nobles. 
All these things Marie Antoinette picked up quickly; and 
as for the army, the abbe used to say she would soon know 
every colonel of every regiment. Besides this sort of 
education, the empress felt that her daughter must learn 
how to take her place in the world, so once or twice a 
week she was allowed to have parties of ten or twelve in 
her own rooms, at which she presided, and here they 
would play cavagnol or other fashionable card games, 
for in those days cards were played every night, and large 
sums were staked. 

The wedding-day drew nearer and nearer, and the 
empress's heart sometimes failed her at the thought of 
the child she was sending forth alone. As she was very 
busy all day, she made her daughter sleep during the 
last w^eks in her room at night, and here she warned her 
against all the temptations she might find in the court, 
and read to her out of a little book which her husband had 
once written for his children. Very useful was the counsel 
he gave, the dangers he foresaw being mostly those which 
beset Marie Antoinette during her married life, and led 
to her downfall. 'Beware,' he said 'of making friends 
quickly, or of allowing pleasure to become a business 
when it should only be an amusement. Beware of flat- 
tering tongues, and of persuading yourself that things 
may be innocent when really they are harmful. Do not 
let the world absorb you, till you forget that you are mor- 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 259 

tal, but put aside two days in every year to think of 
death.' 

As the young archduchess read these words her soul 
grew serious within her, and she promised her mother 
that she would keep the book always, and strive to act as 
her father would have wished. And so she did; but she 
was young and alone, and if court life is difficult every- 
where, in France it was harder than anywhere else. 

For three days in Holy Week Marie Antoinette went 
into retreat, and when she returned to the palace for Easter 
she had to give audience to the principal Austrian and 
Hungarian nobles, and to reply in Latin (probably care- 
fully learnt for the occasion) to an address of the Uni- 
versity. Next, the empress held a crowded court, and 
in the midst of it the French ambassador presented the 
archduchess with a letter from the dauphin, together with 
his portrait set in diamonds, which was hung at once 
round her neck by the countess of Trautmannsdorf, who 
was in attendance. Then, much to the relief of the bride, 
they went to the theatre, to see a French play. There 
only remained one more ceremony to be performed, and 
this, considering that the archduchess was the youngest 
of a very large family, was merely formal, and in the pres- 
ence of a number of witnesses she signed a paper renounc- 
ing her claim to any Austrian, Hungarian, or Bohemian 
territory. This done, a few balls and banquets were given 
in her honour, and, on April 19, her marriage by proxy 
took place in the church of the Augustinians, her brother, 
the archduke Ferdinand, taking the oaths instead of the 
bridegroom. The papal nuncio, or special envoy, gave 
the blessing, and little Marie Antoinette was dauphine 
of France. 

Her progress from Vienna, under the care of the prince 
of Stahremberg, was a series of fetes. On an island of 
the Rhine the ladies and gentlemen of her suite awaited 
her in a magnificent pavilion, and here she took off her 



260 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

Viennese clothes, even her stockings, and put on one of 
her beautiful trousseau dresses, sent straight from Paris. 
The prince of Stahremberg delivered her into the charge 
of the comte de Noailles, and bade her farewell. Then 
the dauphine entered one of the carriages which had been 
built for her in Paris. In those days the carriages wxre 
worth seeing, for each was a work of art. Those intended 
for the use of Marie Antoinette were things of wonder 
and beauty, and had astonished even Paris, where splendid 
coaches were to be seen all day in the streets. One was 
covered entirely with crimson velvet on which the em- 
blems of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, had been 
worked in gold thread, while a wreath of flowers, in 
gold and enamel, ran along the top; the other was 
also decorated with flowers in their natural colours, and 
the body of the carriage was in blue, with pictures rep- 
resenting earth, air, fire, and water, embroidered in silver. 
At that period carriages cost great sums of money, for 
the paintings of them were done by good artists, and they 
were handed on from father to son. Strange to say, 
many of them escaped the fury of the mob in the French 
Revolution, and brightened the Paris of the Restoration. 
But a curious fate was in store for them after all. 
One night, in the year 1848, a young lady living in Paris 
with her family, was beckoned out of the room by the old 
courrier. 

'If you will come out with me, I will show you some- 
thing you will never forget,' said he, 'only you must say 
nothing.' The girl promised, and wTapping herself in a 
cloak and hood, went with the old man to the place du 
Carrousel, behind the Tuileries. Here a huge fire was 
Ijurning, and all along the walls the lovely coaches were 
ranged, to be dragged one by one into the midst of the 
fire. For a while the girl looked on, as if fascinated by 
the work of destruction, then suddenly she turned away. 
'Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful pity!' she cried; 'I wish I 
had never come. Oh, take me home at once.' 



UNE RFJNE MALTIEUREUSE 201 

But we have wandered far down the years from Marie 
Antoinette, whom we left driving across the bridge to 
the French town of Strasburg. The carriage could only 
go very slowly, for, besides the regiments of cavalry 
which Hned the streets, crowds of people stood on every 
bit of available ground. Guns fired, bells pealed, voices 
shouted, and Marie Antoinette enjoyed the deafening 
noise, and smiled and bowed and waved her hand, and 
looked so pleased and happy that the cries of welcome 
grew louder and more heartfelt than before. At last she 
reached the archbishop's palace, where all the great 
Church officials were drawn up to receive her, headed 
by her host, the cardinal de Rohan himself; by his side 
stood his nephew and helper, prince Louis de Rohan, 
who afterwards did Marie Antoinette a cruel wrong. Gaily 
the dauphine entered the palace, where she at once held 
a reception, to which only ladies were admitted, and 
to each of these she said a few pleasant words and begged 
to know their names. Next she dined in pubhc, and 
glad she must have felt of a little rest and food; but 
she was not allowed to sit long over her dinner, for she 
had to visit the theatre, drive about the illuminated 
streets, and attend a ball, before she went to bed. It 
was a day that would have tired most girls, but Marie 
Antoinette loved pleasure, and seemed to thrive on it, 
and it was with regret that next day she took leave of the 
hospitable city, which never forgot her or her pretty 
manners. 'Ah!' the people would say to each other, 
when the dark days came by-and-bye, 'she was better 
than beautiful, and had a heart of gold. Did you not 
hear when monsieur le maire addressed her in German, 
how she would have none of it, and answered, ''You must 
not speak to me in German, Monsieur, for now I under- 
stand nothing but French"? Ah, ' poor thing, poor 
thing!' ■"' -"i?-n-^»r. ,, 

The May trees were in blossom and the lilacs and labur- 
nums bloomed in the gardens when Marie Antoinette 



262 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

arrived at the little town of Compiegne which the king, 
the royal family, and his cousins, the princes of the blood, 
had reached the day before. The first person whom she 
met was the due de Choiseul, the king's minister, sent to 
welcome her by the king. 

'I shall never forget,' said the dauphine, holding out 
her hand for Choiseul to kiss, 'I shall never forget that it 
is you who have made my happiness.' 

'And that of France,' answered the minister. And then 
the royal carriage drove out and the king dismounted, 
followed by his daughters, and Marie Antoinette fell on 
her knees before him, as her mother had bidden her. But 
Louis raised her and kissed her, and presented the dauphin, 
who took far less interest in the bride than his grandfather. 
For some reason or other, the court of France had not 
expected the future queen to be more than tolerably good- 
looking, and when she entered the royal apartments where 
the princes of the blood were awaiting her, led by the 
king and the dauphin, they were all startled by her beauty. 
It was not only the brilliant complexion, the fair hair 
with hardly a touch of powder, or the bright blue eyes 
which they admired, it was the sort of radiance of ex- 
pression, the Hfe and power of enjoyment, shown in the 
pictures painted at that time. And she had charms be- 
sides, which in the French court were more dearly prized 
than mere loveHness; she had an air of distinction and 
dignity not always possessed by people of high birth. She 
was tall for her age, and held herself well, and could answer 
the fine compliments that were then in fashion, with equal 
grace and courtesy. 

The ceremony of presentation that now took place 
would have been rather alarming to most young princesses. 
One by one the king introduced his cousins. First the 
due d' Orleans and his son the due de Chartres (here- 
after to become PhiHppe EgaHte, and lose his head on 
the guillotine), then the whole Conde family, and the due 
de Penthievre and his son, and the lovely princesse de 




^SL hij tKe/ ^L?iQ^ and. the. jbau-^hiriy' 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 2G5 

Lamballe; then those who were more remote. After each 
one had bowed or curtseyed, he or she sat on an armchair 
and when all the armchairs were full, as in a game, the 
due d'Orleans, the senior prince of the blood, rose, bowed 
again, and backed to the door, followed by the rest in 
order of precedence. 

The following morning a number of splendid carriages 
drawn by six or eight long-tailed horses, might have been 
seen on the road from Compiegne to Paris. The king's 
coach, containing the bride and bridegroom, drew up at 
the doors of the CarmeHte convent at St. Denis, where 
the princess Louise was a professed nun. Here they en- 
tered, accompanied by madame Adelaide, madame Vic- 
toire, and madame Sophie, who were anxious to take this 
opportunity of seeing their sister, for the Carmelite rule 
was very strict, and visitors, even royal ones, were rare. 
The gentle S(eur Louise was delighted with her new niece, 
and still more pleased when she learnt that it was she 
and not the king, who had wished to pay the visit, while 
on her side Marie Antoinette had a sense of rest in the 
presence of the nun, which she never felt when with the 
other princesses. But the king soon rose, good-byes 
were said, and the carriages rolled along outside Paris 
to La Muette in the Bois de Boulogne, where the dau- 
phin's younger brothers, the comte de Provence and the 
comte d'Artois were ready to receive them. The elder 
boy was serious and heavy, like the dauphin, but the 
younger was bright and gay, and at once made friends 
with his sister-in-law. But best of all were the two little 
princesses, madame Clotilde, the king's favourite, and 
madame Elizabeth, the girl who in after years stood 
by Marie Antoinette in all her trials, and followed her 
to the guillotine. However, no shadows lay over that 
warm May day when the dauphine set out from La 
Muette for Versailles, for the celebration of her marriage 
in the chapel. The Swiss Guards were drawn up before 
the palace, the same corps which, twenty-two years 



^66 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

after, were cut down before the Tuileries in defending 
Marie Antoinette and her husband, and they presented 
arms as she got down from her carriage, and went to change 
her dress in the rooms which she was temporarily to 
occupy. 

At one o'clock she appeared again, dressed in a white 
brocade dress, looped back over panniers. Holding her 
hand high in the air walked the dauphin, wearing the robes 
of the Order of the St. Esprit, ghttering with diamonds 
and -gold. Although more than a year older than the 
archduchess, he looked like a clumsy boy by her side, and 
instead of his gorgeous garments lending him dignity they 
seemed to smother him. After the princes of the blood 
and their attendants came the bridegroom's two brothers, 
then followed the king leading princess Clotilde, mesdames 
his daughters, and a train of seventy of the noblest ladies 
of France. The blessing was given by the archbishop of 
Paris, grand almoner to the king, and then the royal family 
signed the register, but their writing was so very bad that 
it could hardly be read. 

The rest of the day was passed in the manner usual 
at royal weddings: fetes were held during the afternoon; 
at six, card tables were set, and the public were admitted 
to stare at them while they were playing at cavagnol or 
lansquenet; at half-past nine they had, supper in the new 
hall of the opera house. Marie Antoinette went through 
it all with the life and spirit she put into everything, though 
she could hardly have helped feehng irritated with the 
bored face of her bridegroom. Next day seemed very 
long indeed to her — and to him also. Etiquette did not 
allow him to hunt, and he cared for nothing else; and 
though she tried to forget that she had a husband, and 
only to think of the gaiety about her, yet the gloomy youth 
at her side weighed down her spirits, and no doubt all 
the excitement of the last few days had tired her. When, 
the next morning, the dauphin set out with a beaming 
countenance to hunt with the king, she felt quite relieved, 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 



267 



and glad to spend a few quiet hours with her dog and 
her lady-in-waiting. Still, just now she was not allowed 
much time to feel lonely, for she seemed always dressing 
and undressing to go to some brilHant festivity. One 
evening a great ball was given, at which even madame 
Clotilde was allowed to appear, and a young princess of 
Lorraine, Marie Antoinette's cousin, was present. For 




IHE 3W1&S QUAT^p PK,e5EMT A.K^$ TO MAWJE ANTOINETTTB 



two hundred years the French nobles had always been 
jealous of the dukes of Lorraine, and never lost any chance 
of being rude to them; so when they heard that the king 
had allotted the princess a place in the first state quad- 
rille, they ordered their wives and daughters to stay at 
home. Of course the ladies were all bitterly angry, and 
wept tears of disappointment; but they sobbed in vain, 



OGH UNE RFJNE MALHEUREUSE 

and it was only when a special order from the king arrived, 
that the injured nobles were forced to give way — to the 
great delight of their families. 

The marriage rejoicings were to end by a display of 
fireworks given by the City of Paris, intended to be the 
most wonderfifl ever seen. They were to be sent up from 
the Place Louis XV. which later changed its name to the 
Place de la Revolution, and then to the Place de la Con- 
corde, and the wide space was filled with wooden platforms 
for the spectators, grouped round a Temple of Hymen. 
After streams of flame from the mouths of the dolphins, 
and rockets and fire-balls had fascinated the people, 
the scene was to be crowned by the ascent of the temjjle 
into the air, where it was to burst into a thousand fiery 
fragments. Holding their breath, the dense crowds 
watched the temple rising into the sky, and a gasp of 
admiration followed its explosion. So intent were they 
in gazing at the spectacle that they never noticed that 
one of the burning rockets had fallen on a platform standing 
at the back till the wood was flaming up behind them. 
Had they kept their presence of mind they might all have 
got safely away, but the panic spread as quickly as the 
fire, and there was a general rush to the side where the 
carriages stood, as that was the only part of the Place 
not blocked by the wooden buildings. In their mad flight 
they dashed up against the horses, which, already 
excited by the noise of the fireworks, plunged and 
tried to bolt; many of the fugitives were trampled under 
their feet, or fell, for others to fall over them. Some strug- 
gled through, but, blinded with terror, could not see where 
they were going, and stumbled over the bank into the 
river, which ran close by. Now, owing to an accidental 
delay, the dauphine, who was to drive to the Place Louis 
XV. with mesdames, had been delayed in starting, and 
only arrived when the panic was at its height. She was 
horror-stricken at the sights and sounds around her, and 
when she found there was nothing to be done at the mo- 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 269 

ment, directed the coachman to return to the palace. All 
night long the cries and groans rang in her ears, and 
as soon as it was daylight both she and the dauphin 
sent all the money they had to the chief of the police, beg- 
ging him to lay it out for the good of the sufferers from 
the fire. 

From these, and many other acts of kindness, the bride 
became very popular with the Parisians, over whom she 
was some day to rule; and her mother was forced to write 
and warn her not to put too much faith in their loyalty, 
or to think herself the piece of perfection they called her, 
for they were very fickle, and easily threw down their old 
idols, to worship new ones in their stead. Marie Antoi- 
nette replied dutifully to her mother's letters, but, being 
young, put little faith in her counsels. What the empress 
said might be true of most people, she thought, but it could 
never be true of her. So she smiled and danced, and 
beamed with happiness — till the crash came, and she laid 
her head down on the Place Louis XV., where the guillotine 
was erected. i (lij >J 

Like the king's own mother, the little duchesse de Bour- 
gogne, and Louis XIV., she became the pet and plaything 
of the dauphin's grandfather. Louis XV. enjoyed being 
treated by her in a friendly, unceremonious fashion, and 
her spirits and gaiety roused him from the boredom which 
had been the bane of his life. 'Mon papa,' she called 
him when they were alone, and she would fling herself 
into his arms, and tell all that she had heard and seen, 
and the amusements she had invented. How that when 
they were next at Fontainebleau she meant to have donkey 
rides with her friends every day in the forest, and then 
she would take long walks, as she used to do at Schon- 
brijnn — nobody at Versailles seemed to have any legs 
at all; and by-and-bye, when the bad weather came, she 
would have singing lessons again, and study the harp. 
Perhaps she might even read some history, if the snow 
was not hard enough for sledging! Yet, in spite of Marie 



270 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

Antoinette's power of being happy, she had many diffi- 
culties, to fight against, though she was often unconscious 
of the fact. Mesdames, with whom she passed much 
of her time, were fond of her and kind to her, but un- 
luckily the eldest of the three, madame Adelaide, had 
the strongest will and the worst temper, and the other 
two were afraid of opposing her, lest they should make 
her angry. Besides being strong-willed and bad-tempered, 
madame Adelaide had very little common-sense and a 
great deal of pride, and often gave the dauphine advice 
which got her into trouble. Then, at first, the dauphin, 
who was very shy, and not at all clever, held aloof from 
her, and left her to pass her time as best she could while 
he was away hunting. But after a while his timidity 
wore off, they became good friends, and he consulted 
her and asked her opinion on all sorts of subjects. When 
a couple of years had passed, he had grown so far 
like other people that he would be present at the 
little dances of intimate friends which Marie Antoinette 
gave once a week in her own apartments, and allowed 
proverbs and comedies to be played in his own rooms, 
which amused them much and cost but httle. Some- 
times Marie Antoinette herself would act, with her brother- 
in-law the comte de Provence, or they would have music, 
when fat and friendly princess Clotilde w^ould accom- 
pany herself on the guitar, and Marie Antoinette would 
sing also. At length, to the dauphin's great dehght, 
she declared her intention of hunting on horseback, 
which no dauphine had done for hundreds of years. 
When every other amusement failed there were cards — 
always cards — which the king's aunts preferred to every- 
thing else. 

The years sped gaily on to the young dauphine, who 
never heard, or did not heed, the rumblings of the dis- 
content of the starving and down-trodden people. She 
herself was always kind to them, not merely in words 
but in taking trouble, which is much harder work. Yet the 



UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 273 

flattery she received from the friends who were constantly 
with her had worked her evil. She fancied herself all- 
powerful, and became vexed and impatient if her wishes 
were not immediately carried out. She began to meddle 
in politics, too, of which she knew absolutely nothing, and 
in this, though she would have been shocked to think it. 
she worked positive harm. 

In May, 1774, a change came into her Hfe. The king 
had been taken ill of small-pox about a fortnight earlier in 
the cottage of the Little Trianon, where he was having 
supper, and was hastily removed in a carriage to the 
palace of Versailles. It was curious to note the total 
indifference with which his subjects, especially the Paris- 
ians, received the news of his danger. Louis the 
Well-Beloved, as the child of five had been named, was 
passing away, and Louis the Wished-for was to take his 
place. Nobody cared — nobody pretended to care — ex- 
cept his daughters. Only Marie Antoinette, to whom he 
had always been kind, was really sorry, and offered to stay 
with him and mesdames; but, being forbidden, she shut 
herself up in her own room, where her sisters and brothers- 
in-law, bewildered with the strangeness of it all, gathered 
around her. The dauphine felt bewildered too, in the midst 
of her grief. 

'I feel as if the skies were falHng on me,' she said. 
As for the dauphin, he had given orders that the moment 
the king died the carriage should be ready to go to 
Choisy. 

So they waited, watching the lighted candle in the 
window of the sick room, which was to be extinguished 
the moment the king had ceased to breathe. He could 
not see the sunset — that they knew; but there was some- 
thing awful in that solemn silence. Suddenly a noise was 
heard outside, and madame de Noailles entered. 

'The courtiers are in the (Eil-de-Boeuf, Madame,' she 
exclaimed; 'will your Majesties deign to go there to receive 
them ? ' 

19 



274 UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE 

Arm-in-arm, the queen of eighteen and the king of 
nineteen advanced into the room, where the due de Bouillon, 
grand chamberlain, came forward to meet them. As they 
paused in the doorway he threw himself on one knee: 
'The king is dead,' he said. 'Long live the king!' 

Many years ago, an old lady who had passed her hun- 
dredth birthday, told the writer of this story that on a cold 
day in January, 1793, she went to a children's party in 
London. The house was large, and was filled with little 
boys and girls all eager to begin to dance on the beauti- 
fully polished floor. The musicians had already tuned up, 
and the eager faces of the little guests were turned towards 
the door, waiting for their hostess to enter. At length she 
came, dressed in black, her eyes red with weeping. ' Chil- 
dren,' she said, 'you must all go home. I have just heard 
the king of France is dead.' 

The king w^as Louis le Desire, the husband of Marie 
Antoinette, who had died on the guillotine. 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 



A QUEEN at seven and a widow at twelve. Who can 
guess that riddle? Yet there have been very few little 
girls in Europe who could be described in such a way, and, 
out of those, fewer still who were not mere dolls, but left 
a mark on the history of the time, and therefore of the time 
to come. 

At the close of the year of grace 1395 a group of chil- 
dren were living in the Hotel de St. Pol, on the banks 
of the Seine in Paris. They were all pretty — their 
mother Isabeau de Baviere, queen of France, was as fa- 
mous for her beauty as for her wickedness — but the pretti- 
est of all was Isabel, the eldest daughter, with her large 
brown eyes and pink and white skin. Charles VI., the 
father of these little princes and princesses, was subject 
to terrible fits of gloom, which in later years deepened 
into madness. Still, he always had a special love for 
Isabel, who was everybody's favourite, even her mother's, 
though it was not to be expected that the queen would 
give up any of her own pleasures in order to look after her 
children. By-and-by two little sisters, years younger than 
any of these, princess Michelle, hereafter to be duchess of 
Burgundy, and little princess Katherine, who became the 
wife of Henry V. and queen of England, were so neglected 
by their servants (who thought they might safely follow 
the queen's example) that the poor Httle things were half- 
starved and clad in dirty rags. But at the time we are 
speaking of matters were not so bad. Queen Isabeau was 

275 



276 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

proud of princess Isabel, and gave her masters to teach 
her music and the old romances. The child was quick and 
fond of books, and would often leave the games which 
she had been playing with her brothers and sit in the small 
dark rooms with carved ceilings and tapestry hang- 
ings, embroidered in fleurs-de-lis^ listening to the old 
stories of Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail, or the adven- 
tures of Huon of Bordeaux. In the dark evenings she 
would lie on a silken cushion on the floor of the great hall, 
her fingers absently thrust in the hair of the small grey- 
hound that was curled up against her, her mind wrapped 
up in the lays sung by the minstrels to charm away the 
gloom of the king. 

In the midst of this quiet life there one day entered 
the gates of Paris a goodly array of ambassadors from 
England to demand from Charles VI. the hand of the 
princess Isabel on behalf of Richard II., king of England. 
The envoys had not set forth without fierce protest from 
the English people, who still remembered Crecy and 
Poitiers, won by Richard's own father when still a boy, 
and hated the thought of an alliance with their foes. Be- 
sides this, they had all loved Richard's first wife, Anne 
of Bohemia, who had only died the year before; and 
though it was necessary for him to marry again, and have 
a son to wear the crown after him, they did not wish 
him to forget so soon, still less for his choice to fall 
on a French princess, and a mere baby! Richard 
summoned parliament to meet and talk over the matter, 
and the famous chronicler Sir John Froissart, who had 
newly entered England, was present at the debates. But 
whether his subjects approved or not, the king was 
determined to have his way. He was half French 
himself, he always declared; for was he not born at Bor- 
deaux, and did he not love the songs and the poetry that 
came from France? And the«, though perhaps he 
may have kept this reason in the background, where else 
could he find a bride endowed with such great riches? 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 277 

And Richard was always extravagant and always in 
debt. 

Of course Richard had not called his parhament 
together without first finding out the mind of the French 
king on the subject. The first messenger who was sent 
to Charles received for answer that the princess was al- 
ready betrothed to the son of the duke of Brittany 
that it would be five or six years at least before she was 
of marriageable age, and that Richard was twenty-two 
years older than she. But Richard, who now and then 
behaved Uke a spoik baby, only gave a scornful laugh 
when he read Charles's letter. Had not the king another 
daughter who would make as good a duchess of Brittany 
as Isabel? And as for the rest — and with a shrug of his 
shoulders he turned away and began to talk with Sir John 
Froissart about the next yearly meeting of the jongleurs, 
or minstrels, to be held at his court. 

Now these matters had been carefully concealed from 
the princess Isabel, who had no idea that the splendidly 
arrayed and armed body of five hundred men riding along 
the banks of the Seine towards the Hotel de St. Pol had 
come to decide her fate. 

'Look, look I' she cried to her brothers and sisters as 
they all crowded at the small window. 'Who can they 
be? One has a mitre; is he a bishop, think you? or an 
archbishop? And the others? I know not the devices 
on their shields, but they are richly dressed, and they hold 
themselves proudly. And, see, they are entering the gate- 
way. Oh, Louis, you are the dauphin! I wonder if they 
will send for you 1 ' 

After all, it was not Louis but Isabel, who was sum- 
moned, and in a few words learned from her great- 
uncle the duke of Burgundy the object of this magnificent 
embassy. Isabel Hstened in surprise, but it was not the 
first time that she had heard talk of her marriage; so she 
showed no signs of shyness, and bade her maids put on 



278 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 



with all haste her light blue velvet dress, the colour of 
France, and clasp the loose folds with her jewelled belt. 
Then, escorted by her uncle, she entered the great hall, 
and, standing by her mother's side, awaited the appearance 
of the envoys. 

'Who can know how such a child will behave?' 
the council of regency, who governed France during 




*Ti>Ol^ "LootC .SHE. C»UEP ro HER. BROTHEJiS 5/ SISTERS 



Charles's fits of madness, had asked of the English nobles 
when they had begged for an interview with the princess 
herself. But the earl marshal, looking at the tall and 
dignified young lady before him, felt that they need not 
have been afraid. This was no child, beautiful indeed, 
but caring for nothing except sweet confections and puppets, 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 279 

but a girl whose face and manner showed marks of thought 
and of careful training in the ways of courts. 

'Madam, if it please God, you shall be our lady and 
queen,' said the earl marshal, falling on one knee, 
and Isabel answered, 'Sir, if it please God and my 
lord and father that I be queen of England, I shall be con- 
tent, for I know that I shall be a great lady.' So saying 
she signed to him to rise from his knee, and, taking his 
hand, led him to the queen her mother, who was well 
pleased with her reply. 

So Isabel's fate was settled, and as the poor French 
king was not in a state to talk about business, it was the 
duke of Burgundy with whom the ambassadors held 
daily discussions. It was decided that, though the earl 
marshal should represent Richard in the marriage cere- 
mony, which, at the urgent request of the English 
king, was to take place at once, the young bride should 
remain in Paris another year, to get her trousseau and 
be taught the duties of the 'great lady' she was to be. 
Among these 'duties' we may be sure the learning of 
English was included, and also the practice of music, 
which Richard loved. No doubt she managed to find out 
something of her future husband from the count of St. 
Pol, who was his brother-in-law, and she would only hear 
the many good things that could truly be said of him: of 
his grace, his beauty, his cleverness, and his gallantry 
when as a boy of fifteen he faced the rebel archers of Wat 
Tyler and Jack Straw, and won them over to his 
side. Of his wilfulness, his extravagance, and his heed- 
lessness there was no need to tell her; and indeed, what- 
ever were his faults, Richard was always true and loving 
to her. 

The year that was to pass between the marriage by 
proxy and the real marriage most likely seemed as long 
to the 'queen of England,' as she was now called, as it 
would have done to any little girl of her age. But at 



280 l^HE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

length it was announced that at the end of October 
Richard would cross over to Calais, which was to be 
English ground for nearly two hundred years longer. 
The king, who, unlike his people, much desired a peace 
with France, sailed with a noble company across the 
Channel, for at his express wish his famous uncle, John 
of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, with his third duchess, 
the duke and duchess of York, and the duke and 
duchess of Gloucester, with their two daughters, sailed 
with him. It was with great unwillingness that Gloucester 
obeyed the summons of the king to attend his marriage. 
He hated his nephew for many reasons, and Richard was 
not slow to perceive and return his feelings. Well he knew 
that his uncle was an ambitious man, who would fain have 
seen his daughter queen of England; and, besides, the 
duke longed to go to war with France, and lost no chance 
of exciting the passions of the English people and making 
the French alliance more unpopular than it was already. 
Perhaps Gloucester had cherished secret hopes of being 
left behind to rule the kingdom while Richard was away; 
but if so he was disappointed, for the king's cousin, Henry 
earl of Derby (afterwards Henry IV.), was declared 
regent. twii!n>>i , 

It was on October 27j1 '1396, that the kings of France 
and England met in a plain outside Calais. Everything 
had been carefully planned beforehand, and the two 
sovereigns quitted their lodgings at precisely the same 
moment and walked slowly to the appointed place, which 
must be reached at exactly the same time, as it would be 
unfitting for one king to look more eager than the other! 
Tents splendidly furnished had been prepared for them, 
and all around stood eight hundred French and English 
knights, their drawn swords shining bright in the autumn 
sunshine. From one direction came Charles, with 
Richard's two uncles, Lancaster and Gloucester, on each 
side of him, while from the other Richard was escorted 
by the dukes of Burgundy and Berri, brothers of 'the late 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 281 

king. 'At the moment of the meeting,' says the chron- 
icler, 'the eight hundred knights fell on their knees; the 
two kings swept off their hats and bowed, then took each 
other by the hand, and so entered the French king's tent, 
while the four dukes followed them.' Here another wel- 
come awaited Richard, for he was received by the 
duke of Orleans, brother of Charles, and the duke of Bour- 
bon, his cousin. But as soon as they had greeted the 
bridegroom these two left the tent to join the dukes out- 
side, and at length Charles and Richard were alone and 
could talk over business. 

Next day — the feast of St. Simon and St. Jude — a 
grand banquet was given by Charles, and when it was 
over presents were exchanged between the kings, a cere- 
mony which kept them employed until the little bride 
arrived, attended by the duke of Orleans (who had gone 
to fetch her) and a great suite. Some of the ladies were 
drawn in the long carriages, like furniture vans, that were 
fashionable in the days of Charles VI., while Isabel her- 
self and her young maids of honour were mounted on beau- 
tiful horses, with gorgeous velvet trappings, embroidered 
in gold. The 'queen of England' wore a golden crown, 
which must have felt very uncomfortable on horseback, 
and her dress was blazing with precious stones. She 
liad ridden a long way and was very tired, but she greeted 
her uncles gaily as they lifted her from her horse, and went 
forward to speak to the duchess of Lancaster and Glouces- 
ter. Then she entered the tent, where Richard sat await- 
ing her. 

It was not until Isabel had knelt twice before him, as 
she had been told to do, that Richard got up, took her 
in his arms, and kissed her. When he set her down, 
she looked at him, anxious to see what her future husband 
was like. She found his eyes fixed upon her, and they 
both smiled, well pleased with their first sight of each 
other. He was not at all like what Isabel had expected: 
a man of thirty — almost an old man, too old to care for 



282 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

anything but serious matters, such as making laws and 
governing his kingdom. Why, the king was quite young 
and very, very handsome, with his dark blue eyes and gol- 
den hair, and a complexion as white and fair as her own. 
He could laugh, too, and be merry, she was sure. Oh no, 
she could never be afraid of him^ and some day she might 
even be able to chatter to him as she did to Louis. And 
Richard read her thoughts in her face and was content 
with what fate had brought him. 

The marriage did not take place till four days later, 
on All Saints' Day, and, curiously enough, neither the 
king nor queen of France was present at it. Since they 
had bidden farewell to their daughter, after her meeting 
with Richard, they had stayed quietly at the Httle town of 
St. Omer, though they had news of Isabel from the duke 
of Orleans and the duke of Burgundy, who went over to 
see her at Calais, before she sailed for England. It was 
the first time that Isabel had ever been upon the sea, and 
she did not hke crossing, for though the wind was in their 
favour, it must have been very high, as the ship reached 
Dover in three hours. Two days later she dismounted at 
the palace of Eltham in Kent, and at last had time to rest 
from her journey. 

In those days houses were few and there were no 
coal fires to make smoke, so Isabel was able to see in the 
distance the towers of Westminster Abbey, where by- 
and-by she would be crowned. Between the Abbey and 
Eltham stretched the gorse-covered common of Black- 
heath, the scene of some of Richard's youthful deeds, 
and the tall trees of Greenwich Park. And when she 
was tired of looking at the view, and wandering through 
the gardens with her maids of honour and madame de Coucy, 
her lady-in-waiting, she would summon them to her 
own rooms to watch the unpacking of her trousseau. 
This of itself was a wonderful sight. It not only in- 
cluded dresses of velvet covered with fur and jewels and 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 283 

embroideries for grand occasions, but gowns of the 
finest scarlet or green or white cloth for every day. 
The sleeves were very long, and so was the train; but this 
could be drawn through the belt and tucked up when the 
wearer wanted to play or run races, as we may be certain 
Isabel often did. When they had finished admiring her 
clothes and jewels, there were the rich stuffs and tapes- 
tries to be arranged on the different walls or hung on the 
different beds; and, better than all, had not Isabel brought 
with her a store of figs and sweet things of her own choosing, 
which she bade her waiting women set out on little silver 
plates before her friends? 

But after a few days these joys were interrupted, for 
it was necessary that Isabel should make a progress 
through the City of London and show herself to her new 
subjects, who hated her so much, though she did not guess 
the fact. So she left Eltham under a strong escort 
and rode to Greenwich, where she stepped on board the 
royal barge, and was rowed down to Kennington, near 
Lambeth. Richard was delighted to welcome her here 
in the old palace which had belonged to his father, the 
Black Prince, and where he himself had lived for a while 
with his mother when she became a widow. The next 
morning Isabel rose early, for she knew she must be care- 
fully dressed so as to look her best to her husband's 
people. Her long bright hair was brushed till it shone, 
and over it a fine white veil hung from a golden circlet. 
Luckily the day was fine and warm, for of course the hood 
which she usually wore out of doors had to be laid 
aside. Then her richest robe of velvet edged with 
ermine and covered with gold embroidery was put on, 
with a jacket of the same colour over it, and her golden 
shoes with the long pointed turned-up toes were fastened, 
and very fair she seemed to her ladies and her husband 
as she was placed on her white palfrey, covered like her- 
self with gold. 

Her face was so full of happiness as she rode along 



284 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 



by the side of the king, mounted also on a white horse, 
whose housings or trappings tinkled with silver bells, that 
the hearts of many who most bitterly disliked the French 
marriage melted towards her. Behind followed the 
king's uncles and great nobles, all wearing their special 
badges or coats of arms, and accompanied by their 




retainers. The procession passed through Southwark 
and came at last to London Bridge, which, though made 
of stone and not yet cumbered with houses, was filled 
with such a dense crowd that there was hardly room for 
the king and the queen to move, even at a foot's pace. 
Then an accident happened, as it was sure to do. Some- 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 285 

thing touched a horse; he grew frightened and kicked; 
the throng pressed back on each other; someone stumbled 
and fell. There were no policemen or soldiers lining the 
way to keep order or to give help, and by the time the pro- 
cession had crossed the bridge nine persons had been 
trampled to death. 

In Isabel's day, and for long, long after, the street which 
we call the Strand was filled with the palaces of great 
noblemen with their large gardens sloping down to the 
river and barges moored to the bank; for the streets 
were so narrow and so dirty that no one willingly went 
through them even on horseback or in a carriage. How- 
ever, on the day that Isabel first saw them the fronts of 
the houses were draped with rich hangings and crowded 
with shouting people, while every now and then a platform 
might be seen on which a show of some kind would be given 
or a company of minstrels would sing a song. Altogether, 
pleased and touched though she was with her welcome, 
Isabel must have been glad when the houses were left 
behind and Westminster was reached — Westminster, not 
as we know it now, with houses everywhere, but as it was 
when Guinevere went a-maying, with broad fields and 
pleasant streams, and in the distance northwards the 
russet leaves of a forest. But queens are not so fortunate 
as their subjects, and have little time to rest themselves, 
and Isabel's days for some time to come were spent in re- 
ceiving graciously and smilingly as she well knew how, 
the homage of all who came to pay their respects. Soon 
after there followed a tournament which lasted fourteen 
days, held in the open space of Smithfield, where the victor 
claimed his prize from the hands of the queen. The tourna- 
ment over, the preparations were begun in good earnest for 
Isabel's coronation. 

At length the festivities were finished and life went 
on quietly as before, Isabel remained in the palace at 
Westminster, and daily rode out past the marshy ground 



286 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

which is now Conduit Street, where flag flowers and 
forget-me-nots and marsh marigolds might be plucked 
in spring, and wildfowl were shot when the weather 
grew colder. Or sometimes she would accompany the 
king and his friends to a grand hunt after boar or deer 
in the woods that lay about the stream called the West 
Bourne, whence the chase would often lead them 
eastwards to the heathery spaces beyond what was 
afterwards the Moorgate. When it grew too dark or too 
wet for these sports, Richard would bid the queen play 
to him, and he could correct her faults as weU as any 
master; or she would try and speak English to him, and 
they would both laugh heartily over the blunders she 
made. 

Thus the days went by, and Richard was so good and 
kind to her that Isabel was perfectly happy, and thought 
him the most wonderful person in all the world. She 
did her utmost to please him and to take an interest in 
all he told her, and she noticed with pride that he never 
treated her as a little girl, but talked to her as he might 
have done to a grown-up w^oman. Inside the palace all 
was peace; but outside the people had begun to murmur 
again, and faces grew dark at the sound of Richard's name, 
and men spoke of the debts that were daily increasing 
and the taxes that were ever growing. But if Richard 
took no heed of these signs, there was one person who 
never failed to watch and listen, and every now and then 
to put in a careless word, which somehow always made 
matters worse. This was the duke of Gloucester, uncle 
to the king, and a great favourite of the Londoners. He, 
like them, wished for war with France, and lost no oppor- 
tunity of letting his views be known on the subject. When 
things seemed ripe the duke sent for the earl of March, 
next heir to the kingdom, to his castle of Fleshy in Essex, 
and there unfolded to him a plot which he and the earl of 
Arundel had woven between them. 

It was not without some hesitation that the duke of 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 287 

Gloucester told his tale to the earl of March, for he knew 
that his great-nephew was a true and loyal man, and that 
he dearly loved the king his cousin. But he had pre- 
pared a bait which he thought could not fail to land 
the most obstinate fish, only he resolved not to speak of 
that till the end of his story. Therefore he began by re- 
lating all Richard's acts of misgovernment — and they were 
many — and the burdens laid on his subjects, which were 
many also. 

The two earls nodded their heads. What Gloucester 
said was nothing but truth, and well they knew it. But 
how to find a remedy ? That^ as they said, needed sharper 
wits than theirs. Then Gloucester proceeded, choosing 
his words carefully, but in spite of all his prudence he saw 
March beginning to move uneasily. 

'I do not think I understand,' he said, and Gloucester 
repeated that the patience of the Enghsh people had 
come to an end, that they would bear no more, and de- 
manded (for so his tale went) that Richard and his 
queen should be taken possession of, and kept for life as 
honoured prisoners in separate palaces. This news 
struck the earl dumb with amazement, but before he 
could speak Gloucester added that, after asking counsel 
of many wise and powerful men, they had determined that, 
as soon as Richard was deposed, March should be de- 
clared king. 

A dead silence followed. The earl burned to tell his 
tempter what he thought of such treachery; but in those 
times speech was not always safe, so he held his peace. 
Gloucester, however, read in his face something of what 
was passing in his mind, and entreated him to ponder the 
matter, and above all things to keep it secret, or the lives 
of many of his friends would be endangered. This 
March joyfully promised, and instantly returning to 
London obtained leave from Richard to go and govern 
Ireland, of which he had just been made viceroy. Every 
man among the conspirators was not, however, as loyal 



288 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

as March. The plot was betrayed to the king, who 
instantly summoned his two uncles, Lancaster and York, 
and his brother-in-law the count de St. Pol lately sent by 
Charles VI. to see the queen. The king laid the matter 
before all three and asked their advice how to prevent 
the success of the conspiracy. The two dukes could not 
deny the truth of what the king told them — for the scheme 
that was being planned had come to their ears also; but 
they spoke soothing words, saying that Gloucester ever 
threatened more than he meant or could do, and assuring 
Richard that, even if he really cherished such an evil pur- 
pose, they would see that it was not carried out. Then, 
to avoid taking sides against either brother or nephew, 
they retired hastily to their castles, leaving Richard to 
fight his own battles as best he could. 

The way which he chose has left a dark stain on his 
memory. He felt helpless and alone, and there were 
not wanting people about him to whisper that he would 
never be secure on his throne as long as Gloucester 
lived. Still Richard knew too well that if he dared to 
arrest him publicly his own doom would be sealed, for 
all London would at once fly to arms. Therefore, 
taking some men with him on whom he could rely, 
Richard rode down into Essex to the duke's house 
of Fleshy, and with fair words requested his company 
to the Tower of London. Gloucester went without mis- 
giving — would he not be in the City which adored him ? 
— and w^as lodged in splendid apartments close to the king, 
on pretence, perhaps, of caring the better, for his uncle 
who was at that time suffering from illness. This may also 
have sufficed for a pretext to keep the duke in his room, 
thus hiding his presence. But a night or two later he 
was hurried over to Calais, doubtless by the river, which 
flowed conveniently past the fortress, and handed over 
to the governor by the earl marshal, now duke of 
Norfolk. 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 289 

'What have I done to be so treated?' the duke inquired 
indignantly of Norfolk, and the earl marshal answered 
soothingly that 'the king his master was a little angry 
with him, and had given orders that the duke w^as to be 
locked up for the present in his good town of Calais, 
and, sorry as he himself was to displease his grace, he 
was forced to carry out his orders.' Gloucester under- 
stood, and without further parley begged that a priest 
might be sent for, to hear his confession and give 
him absolution. The rite over, he was preparing to 
dine when four men entered the apartment. The duke 
had not expected them so soon, but he made no resist- 
ance. What would have been the use? He was 
speedily strangled, and a messenger sent over to tell 
Richard that his uncle was dead. 'As to the manner 
of his death, in France no man cared,' says the chronicler; 
but the Londoners were furious, and the dukes of 
Lancaster and York trembled for their lives, though 
they afterwards found that it was to their interest to make 
peace with the king. More troubles followed this act 
of treachery; several nobles were condemned to banish- 
ment or execution, and a fierce quarrel broke out between 
Henry of Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford (son to John of 
Gaunt), and Mowbray duke of Norfolk. A court of chiv- 
alry to decide the matter was summoned to meet at Windsor, 
and we can imagine Isabel's excitement as she watched 
the assembling of the barons, knights, and bannerets of 
England in the courtyard of the castle. The scene is 
described by Shakespeare in the opening of the play of 
'Richard IL' (though he places it in London), and you can 
all read it for yourselves. After much talk judgment 
was passed that the quarrel should be fought out at 
Coventry on September i6, in presence of the king, a 
body of representatives of the house of commons, and the 
people. 

On the day appointed the dukes rode to their places 
clad in the heavy armour of the time. 'God speed the 
^20 



290 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 



right!' cried Norfolk, and Henry of Bolingbroke solemnly 
made the sign of the cross. Each had his lance in rest, 




and leaned forward, listening for the expected signal; the 
trumpets were already raised for sounding the charge, 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 291 

when the king's warder was suddenly thrown down be- 
tween the combatants. « 

'Hold,' he cried; 'our kingdom's earth should not be soiled 

With the dear blood that it has fostered; 

Therefore we banish you our territories: 

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, 

Till twice five summers have enriched our fields. 

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom : 

The hopeless word of " Never to return " 

Breathe I against thee upon pain of life.' 

'Those whom the gods will to destroy they first infatuate.' 
Surely the old Latin proverb was never more true than 
in this act of Richard II. He thought to rid himself of 
two powerful nobles, and instead he turned them into two 
undying enemies, and he soon learned with dismay that 
Hereford had been welcomed at the French Court. Then 
came news which caused the king bitter grief; the earl of 
March, whom he so dearly loved, had died in Ireland. 
Matters there needed a master's eye, and Richard knew 
not whom to trust. At last, troubled as were the affairs 
of England, the king felt that he must go himself and try 
to settle things. And Henry duke of Hereford, on the 
other side of the Channel, watched it all, and knew that 
his chance would soon come. 

After the sentence had been passed on the banished lords, 
Richard had sent prince Henry of Monmouth (son 
of Hereford) and his sisters to Windsor, where the 
widowed duchess of Gloucester and her two daughters had 
been living ever since the death of the duke. It was, we 
may beheve, with great unwillingness that the duchess con- 
sented to dwell under the roof of her husband's murderer; 
but she dared not disobey the king, and reminded herself 
that Isabel not only was innocent of the crime, but ignorant 
of it, as she was of all Richard's evil deeds. The 'little 
queen,' who daily grew more beautiful and womanly, 
only knew that her aunt had lost her husband, and 
judged her grief by what she herself would feel at the 



29!2 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

death of Richard. So she busied herself in doing all the 
kindnesses" she could to the duchess and her daughters, 
though these young ladies were some years older than 
herself, and did not care to play the games in which 
prince Henry, her devoted friend, and his sisters Blanche 
and Philippa delighted. Henry was about her own age, 
but the little girls were younger, and Isabel, who had in 
the days that now seemed so long ago taken care of her 
own brothers and sisters, no doubt mothered these 
children also, and saw that they learned their lessons, 
especially French, and that their manners were good. 
The duke of Hereford had three other sons, but they 
were not sent to Windsor. 

But games and lessons and everything else was 
forgotten when one day Richard came into the queen's 
'bower,' as a lady's boudoir was then called, and told 
her that he must leave her and proceed at once to 
Ireland, where he was much needed. Isabel wept and 
clung to him, and besought him to take her with him; 
but he shook his head gently, and said that Ireland was 
no place for ladies, still less for queens, and that she 
must stay at home and look to her household. He went 
on to say that he had been greatly wroth at discovering 
the state that the lady de Coucy had taken on herself, 
and had dismissed her from her charge about the queen, 
and bade her to go back to France. In her stead he had 
given her place to his niece, the young and widowed 
countess of March, who would shortly arrive with her 
two small children, and join the sad company in the 
castle. 

Left alone, the queen remained sitting in her carved 
high-backed chair, gazing straight before her, but seeing 
nothing. Her thoughts wandered away through the past 
year, and to the Christmas which she and Richard had 
kept in the bishop's palace at Lichfield, and to the 
journey they had made during the summer, riding under 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 203 

shady trees and hedges gay with honeysuckle and wild 
roses, and over downs sweet with gorse and bright with 
heather, amongst the towns of the wxst country, where 
they had seen splendid cathedrals and stately abbeys, 
and listened to the people talking a strange speech, 
which even Richard, clever as he was, could not under- 
stand! How happy they had both been, laughing over 
all their adventures, and what merry evenings they had 
passed in the tents that Richard had ordered to be 
spread for the night, wherever Isabel fancied. And how 
wonderful it was to visit the places where Guinevere 
had lived, and Arthur had fought his last battle! And 
now, now he was going to leave her, and travel over the 
seas, where he might suffer shipwreck, and run into 
dangers that she might never know. Oh no! It was 
impossible! She could never bear it. 

But it had to be. 

On April 25, St. Mark's Day, Richard and Isabel went 
hand in hand to St. George's chapel at Windsor, kneeling 
side by side while a solemn Mass was sung and one 
of the collects chanted by the king himself. When the 
service was over they left the church as they came, Isabel 
with her face white and drawn, with her eyes bright 
and tearless, and walking steadily. Outside the great 
door was set a table with wine and food, and together 
they ate, for the king did not mean to return again into 
the castle, but to ride straight into the west. When they 
had eaten, or pretended to eat, the king hfted up the 
queen in his arms, and holding her to his heart he kissed 
her many times, saying, 'Farewell, madame, until w^e 
meet again,' not knowing that it was farewell for ever. 
Then he rode away without looking back, his young 
cousins, Henry of Monmouth and Humphrey duke of 
Gloucester, riding behind him. 

The queen stood watching till the cavalcade was out 
of sight, then slowly turned and walked towards the 
castle, none daring to speak to her. She mounted the 



294 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

narrow stone staircase like one in a dream, and shutting 
her door flung herself on her bed, with a burst of 
weeping. Kind lady March heard her sobs and longed 
to comfort her; but she too knew what sorrow was, and 
for some hours left Isabel alone with her grief. For 
a fortnight the queen was too ill to move from her room, 
and suffered no one except lady March and her old French 
maid to attend on her. But one morning the sun shone 
for her once more, for in came lady March carrying 
a letter tied with silk and bearing the royal arms, which 
Richard had sent by a special messenger from Milford 
Haven. 

'He had been thinking of her, as he knew she had been 
thinking of him,' he wrote, 'while he rode along the same 
roads on which they had travelled last year together. But 
she must keep up a good heart, and not grieve if she heard 
nought of him, for the seas were rough, and not easy for 
boats to cross, but to remember that he loved her always.' 

Perhaps, if the earl of March had Hved to rule 
Ireland, things might have turned out differently, or at 
any rate Richard's ruin might have been staved off a little 
longer. As it was, the expedition to Ireland only hurried 
on the calamity. The murmurs of the Londoners, which 
had hitherto been low, now became loud, and men shook 
their heads and reminded each other of the fate of 
Edward II. 'Trade grows daily worse,' said they, 'and 
no honest dealer can carry his wares along the roads 
without fear of robbers and outlaws, while should the 
thief be caught justice is never done on him.' At length 
a meeting was held, and it was decided that Henry, now 
duke of Lancaster by the death of his father, should be 
invited to come from France and seize the crown. Most 
likely Henry had expected such a message, but he was 
too cautious to accept the invitation at once, and he 
merely replied that he must take a day to consult with 
his friends. The envoy, however, had noticed a sudden 
sparkle in his eye, and had little doubt of the answer, 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN 



295 



and a few days later Henry, with an escort of ships, was 
-seen saihng up the Enghsh coast. 

The news spread hke hghtning, and as soon as it was 




290 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

known that he had landed at Ravenspur, in Yorkshire, 
men flocked to join him. Richard alone remained ignorant 
of the enemy at his gates, and when, three weeks after, a 
boat managed to cross bearing the evil tidings and the 
king took ship for Holyhead, it was only to learn 
that Henry was advancing to meet him with an army 
of 60,000 men. The king had entrenched himself 
in Flint Castle when Henry knocked at the entrance. 
; 'Who goes there?' cried a voice from within, and the 
newcomer answered: 

'I am Henry of Lancaster, and I have come to claim 
my heritage, which the king has taken for himself. And 
so you can tell him.' 

The man within the gate hastened across the court- 
yard and up the stairs, and entering the hall where 
Richard and his knights were holding counsel he said to 
him: 

'Sire, it is your cousin the earl of Derby who knocks, 
and he demands that you shall restore to him all that 
belongs to the duchy of Lancaster.' 

Now as to this matter Henry spoke truly, for Richard 
had indeed taken the money and lands that belonged of 
right to his cousin, and had spent them upon his ill-fated 
expedition to Ireland. Therefore he looked uncomfort- 
ably at his councillors and inquired of them what he 
should do. 

'Sire, he speaks well,' repHed the knights, 'and it is 
our advice that you listen to him, for he is much loved 
throughout the kingdom, and especially by the Londoners, 
who sent for him beyond the sea to make cause with him 
against you.' 

'Then open the gate,' said Richard, 'and I will speak 
with him.' 

So two knights arose and went across the courtyard 
of the castle and through the small door which was in 
the great gate, and bowed themselves before Henry and 
his friends, taking care to bear themselves politely and 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 297 

graciously, for they knew that the strength did not He on 
their side, 'iim-ji oiuilK bu.i! 

*My lord the king will gladly see you and speak with 
you,' said the oldest of the two, 'and he prays you to 
enter.' 

'Thus will I do,' answered Henry, and entered forth- 
with, thinking nothing of the danger he ran, for the king 
might have straightway put him to death. He walked 
across the hall, up to the chair where Richard was seated, 
and the king changed colour at the sight of him. Not 
that he was in bodily fear, for no Plantagenet was ever 
a coward, but because he knew in his heart that he 
had done his cousin grievous wrong. 'Have you 
breakfasted?' asked Henry without further greeting. 

'Not yet,' repKed the king, who had expected bitter 
reproaches, and half thought this must be a jest; 'it is 
still early. But why do you ask me?' 

'You had better eat something at once,' answered his 
cousin, 'for you have a long journey before you.' 

'A journey?' said Richard; 'and where to, I pray?' 

'To London,' replied Henry; 'therefore I counsel you 
to eat and drink, that the ride may seem more merry.' 

Richard understood; resistance was useless; so he com- 
manded food to be brought, and ate and drank without 
haste and composedly. 

The castle gates were thrown open wide, and a mul- 
titude of soldiers and archers pressed in and advanced 
to the doors, but Henry ordered them to stand back, and 
bade them do damage to none, for the castle with all in 
it was under his protection. After that he fetched the 
king into the courtyard, and while the horses were saddled 
they talked together in a corner. 

Now Richard had a greyhound of great size and beauty 
called Math, which he loved much, and the dog would 
suffer none but the king to touch him. When he rode 
out Math was always by his side, and often the two would 



298 



THE ''LITTLE QUEEN' 



play together in the hall, and Math would put his two 
huge paws on the king's shoulders. And when Math 
beheld the horses ready saddled, and being led to the 
spot where Richard and his cousin were standing, he 




KING, RJCHAKP 



JSZ 



DUKE HENRY I 



I MATH THE GR&YHOUND | 

sprang up, and came with quick bounds towards them. 
Richard held out his hand to his favourite, but the dog 
passed him by, and, going to the side of Henry, reared 
himself on his hind legs and rubbed his head against the 
duke's cheek. 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 299 

'What is he doing?' asked Henry, who had never seen 
Math before. 

'Cousin,' answered the king, 'that caress holds a great 
meaning for you and a Httle one for me.' 

'What is your interpretation of it?' inquired Henry, 
looking puzzled. 

'My greyhound hails you to-day king of England, as 
you will be when I am deposed, and my crown taken from 
me. Keep him with you; he will serve you well.' 

Henry answered nothing; perhaps in his heart he may 
have felt a little ashamed; but the dog stayed with him, 
and did not leave him till the day of his death. 

Meanwhile, at the first whisper of invasion, the duke 
of York, who had been left regent, had removed the queen 
from Windsor to the stronger castle of Wallingford. The 
poor girl thought nothing of her own danger, but was wild 
with despair at the idea that the crown of England might 
be placed on the usurper's head and the rightful king 
be ignorant of the fact. Soon arrived the news that Richard 
had fallen into the hands of the duke of Lancaster, and 
was to be taken to London. Luckily she never heard 
that at Lichfield, where he was probably lodged in the 
same house where they had passed their happy Christmas 
so short a time ago, he had tried to escape, but was re- 
captured in the garden. After this his guards were doubled 
during the long ride to the Tower. 

If Henry was in London, Isabel was clearly not safe 
at Wallingford, and the regent took her by lonely roads 
and obscure villages to the castle of Leeds in Kent. Here 
she was within reach of the coast, and could, if needful, 
be sent over to France. It was at Leeds that Isabel re- 
ceived a messenger from the Londoners to the effect that 
the lady de Coucy (who had lingered about her mistress 
in spite of Richard's order) and all French attendants 
of the queen should be despatched to Dover and conveyed 
to Boulogne. By the envoy's desire the lady de Coucy 



i]00 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

was summoned to the queen's presence, and found to 
her surprise a plain man in the dress of a citizen standing 
by the window. 

'Madame,' he said, without taking the trouble to bow, 
'bid your maids get ready your packages, for you must 
quit this place without delay. But beware of telling 
anyone that you do not go of your own free will; instead, 
say that your husband and daughter need you. Your life 
hangs on your silence and obedience, and the less you 
hear and see the better for you. You will have an escort 
as far as Dover, where you will find a ship to put you 
ashore at Boulogne.' 

'I wnll obey your orders, good sir,' answered the lady 
de Coucy, who had listened trembling; and she lost no 
time in making her preparations and in bidding the queen 
farewell. Indeed, she was in such a haste to be gone 
that she would hardly wait to hear the loving messages 
which Isabel sent to her father and mother, or allow her 
to take leave of the faithful servants who had come with 
the queen from France, but hurried them down into the 
courtyard, where horses of all sorts were saddled and 
bridled. A troop of soldiers was in readiness to accom- 
pany them to Dover, but on their arrival there the fugi- 
tives — for they were nothing less — found to their dismay 
that they were expected to pay heavily for the honour, 
'each according to his condition,' as Froissart says. Right 
thankful w^re they to get on board the vessel which 
was to land them on French soil. Once in France 
the lady de Coucy hastened to Paris, and it was 
from her that Charles learned, for the first time, the peril 
of his daughter. 

At their departure poor Isabel felt more lonely than 
she had done since she had bidden her parents farewell 
before her marriage. Far more lonely, for then she had 
Richard, and now the new English attendants which 'the 
Londoners' placed about her were forbidden even to 
mention his name. So her days were spent in torturing 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 301 

thoughts and her nights in evil dreams; she could 
hardly have been more wretched had she known he was 
in the Tower. The suspense would have been terrible 
for a grown-up woman, and for a girl under twelve it 
was almost unbearable; but her grief would have been 
deeper still if she had known that Richard had prayed 
to have his wife with him in his captivity, and had been 
refused. 

Shut up in the Tower, Richard had plenty of time to 
look back on the events of the twenty-two years that his 
reign had lasted and to note the folly and extravagance 
which had led to his ruin. Some friends he still had, and 
of these the earl of Salisbury was the chief; but a little 
while after this an effort made by the earl to assassinate 
Henry only ended in his own death and in the death of 
the king he was so anxious to save. The advice of Rich- 
ard's attendants was to resign at once, lest worse should 
befall them, and, bitter though it was to him, the king 
felt that the counsel was good. Therefore he sent a mes- 
sage to Henry, now living in his own house on the banks 
of the Thames, to say he would like to speak with him. 
The duke, with a company of knights in attendance, 
arrived in a barge, and was conducted to the king. Humbly 
Richard confessed all the wrongs he had done him, and 
declared himself ready to abdicate the throne in his favour. 
Henry replied that this must be done in the presence of 
parliament and with the consent of its representa- 
tives; but in three days a sufficient number of these 
could be assembled for the purpose. Not being a 
generous man, he did not stop there, but went on 
to point out that if Richard had followed in the steps of 
his grandfather, Edward IH., and of his father, the 
Black Prince, all would have been well; instead, he had 
chosen to go his own way without considering his people. 
'Still,' cried Henry — and perhaps at the moment he 
meant what he said — 'out of pity I will defend you and 



302 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

preserve your life from the hatred of the Londoners, who 
would have you die,' 

'I thank you, cousin,' repHed Richard; 'I have more 
faith in you than in the whole of England.' 

After remaining for two hours with Richard the duke 
of Lancaster returned home, and sent out letters to all 
his relations of Plantagenet blood and to the nobles, 
Churchmen, and citizens of London, summoning them to 
meet at Westminster. When they arrived he rode to 
the Tower with a great company, who, leaving their 
horses outside, entered the fortress. Here Richard 
awaited them in the great hall, wearing on his head the 
crown of his coronation and holding the sceptre in his 
hand, while the royal mantle flowed from his shoulders. 
'For twenty- two years,' he said, standing on the steps of the 
dais and looking steadfastly into the faces of the men around 
him — ' for twenty-two years I have been king of England, 
duke of Aquitaine, and lord of Ireland. I now resign 
crown, sceptre, and heritage into the hands of my cousin 
Henry duke of Lancaster, and in the presence of you all 
I pray him to accept them.' Then he held out the sceptre 
to Henry, who stood near him, and taking off the crown 
placed it before him, saying as he did so, 'Henry, dear 
cousin and duke of Lancaster, I give you this crown, with 
all its duties and privileges,' and the duke of Lancaster 
received that also and handed it to the archbishop. This 
done, Richard — king no longer — returned to his apart- 
ments, and the company who had witnessed the act of 
abdication rode silently back to their own houses, while the 
sceptre and the crown were deposited for safety in the 
treasury of Westminster Abbey. The bitterest moment of 
Richard's life had come. He had, through his own fault he 
knew, been forced to yield up the inheritance that had de- 
scended without a break from father to son for 200 years. 
He had worn out the patience of his subjects, till he stood 
alone, and they refused him even the comfort of his wife's 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 303 

presence. Ah! she was faithful, and would suffer with 
his pain! And in thinking of Isabel for a while he forgot 
himself. 

He had done what was required, and the last acts of 
the drama were gone through without him. Perhaps 
Henry was merciful; perhaps he did not care to risk his 
throne by showing the people their rightful king, of 
whose beauty and boyish gallantry they had once been so 
proud. In any case it was Henry who presided at the 
parliament held at Westminster, 'outside London,' in 
September 1399, and demanded that he should be declared 
king on the ground of three claims which he set forth: 
First, by right of conquest; second, by heirship; and 
third, by the resignation of Richard in his favour, in 
presence of nobles, bishops, and citizens gathered in the 
Tower. 'You shall be our king; we will have none 
other!' they cried, and twice more Henry repeated the 
same question and received the same answer. Then 
Henry sat himself on the 'throne covered with cloth of 
gold, and the people stretched out their hands and swore 
fealty to him. Before parliament separated, October 8 
was fixed for the coronation. 

At nine o'clock on the appointed day the royal 
procession left the palace. The sword of justice was 
borne by Henry Percy earl of Northumberland; the sword of 
the Church by the young prince of Wales; while the earl 
of Westmoreland, marshal of England, carried the sceptre. 
Seats had been erected in the Abbey for the nobles 
and clergy, and in their midst was a raised plat- 
form, on which was a vacant chair draped with cloth of 
gold. Henry walked up the steps and took possession 
of the throne, while the archbishop turned to the four 
sides of the platform and demanded if it was the wish of 
that assembly that Henry duke of Lancaster should be 
crowned king. 'It is, it is!' they cried as before; so Henry 
came down from the throne and walked to the High Altar, 
and the crown of Edward the Confessor was put on his 



304 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

head, and he was anointed in six places. Th'eri deacon s 
robes were placed on him, signifying that he would defend 
the Church, and the sword of justice >vas blessed, and 
Henry IV. was proclairned king. ^^ 

In spite of the dark whispers that had been heard during 
the past year as to the fate of Edward II., it is doubtful 
if Richard's life would not have been spared but for 
the plot made by the earl of Salisbury for assas- 
sinating Henry. The plot failed because Henry did 
not appear at the tournament; but, nothing daunted, 
Salisbury persuaded a man named Maudlin, who had 
a strong likeness to Richard, to personate the deposed 
king, and sent word to Isabel that her husband was march- 
ing to rescue her at the head of a large army. The queen, 
who knew by this time that Henry had been pro- 
claimed king of England, believed all that was told 
her, and instantly left Sunning Hill, near Reading, where 
she had been staying for some time, and joined the body 
of troops commanded by the earl of Kent, nephew of 
Richard. Happy and excited, and full of hope, she knew 
no fatigue; but her spirits fell a little as they drew near 
Cirencester without either letter or message from her 
beloved husband. Once inside the gates the mayor 
betrayed them to Henry, and, "while Kent and Salisbury 
were beheaded at once, Isabel was sent, strictly guarded, 
to Havering-atte-Bower, not far from London. Here 
three French attendants were all the company allowed 
her — a maid, a physician and confessor, and her 
chamberlain; but these like the rest of her household 
were forbidden to mention the late king; even the two 
gentlemen sent over by Charles VI. to inquire into the 
condition of his daughter received orders from Henry 
himself to keep silence on this subject, though they were 
assured that Isabel would be kept in all the state be- 
fitting a queen dowager. They found her at Havering 
surrounded by Richard's relations, Svho honourably kept 
her company,' as Froissart tells us. There were the duchess 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 305 

of Ireland, sister of lady de Coucy and wife of Robert 
de Vere; the duchess of Gloucester, whose little son 
had lately died on his voyage from Ireland, her daugh- 
ters, and several other ladies. Isabel looked up eagerly 
when the Sieur Charles de Labreth and the Sieur 
de Hangiers were ushered in, and was about to ques- 
tion them eagerly on the matter next her heart when 
M. de Labreth slightly shook his head. Isabel had 
grown apt in reading signs. She understood, and 
the brightness left her face; but she begged them to tell 
her all they knew about her father and mother, her 
brothers and sisters, and what had become of her old 
servants and friends who had returned to Paris. The 
envoys, very ill at ease, feeling themselves surrounded by 
spies, did not stay long, but rode back through London 
to Eltham, where they took leave of Henry, who gav€ 
them fine jewels and fair words. 

In the end that which was bound to happen did 
happen. At the first news of the conspiracy of the earl 
of Salisbury, Richard had been hastily removed from the 
Tower of London to Pontefract Castle, in Yorkshire, and 
there, early in February 1400, he met his death. How 
is not exactly known: stories of all kinds went abroad, 
and, to make sure — a vain precaution — that no pre- 
tenders should hereafter spring up, his body was brought 
to London and carried in procession through the City.' 
Four black horses led by two grooms drew the open car, 
and, four knights in mourning rode behind it. Slowly they 
travelled along Cheapside, while twenty thousand people 
pressed around to gaze their last upon the beautiful face 
of their dead king, who looked scarcely older than on the 
day on which he had faced Wat Tyler. 'Some were 
moved to pity,' says Froissart, 'but others declared that 
he had brought his fate on himself, and felt no sorrow 
.for him.' And the body passed on, unconscious alike of 
friend or foe, till it lay for a while in the church of St. 
Paul's, and then found rest at Langley. 
21 



306 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

In these days it is difficult to understand how no whisper 
of her husband's death reached Isabel, but it was several 
weeks before Henry allowed the fact to be broken to her. 
She had thought that she was prepared for every mis- 
fortune and every grief that could befall her, but at twelve 
one does not easily give up hope, and by the despair that 
took possession of her the 'little queen' at last knew that 
she had expected 'something' might happen to bring 
them together again. 

Considering all that had passed, it seems scarcely pos- 
sible that Henry IV. should have been so stupid as to 
think that he could bring about his dearest wish and unite 
in marriage Henry prince of Wales with the young queen 
dowager. His accession to the throne had been at- 
tended with so little difficulty that he had ceased 
U) reckon with opposition — he remembered that prince 
Harry and Isabel had played together while he was in 
exile, and forgot that he had usurped her husband's 
crown and countenanced his murder. The horror with 
which Isabel rejected his first proposals did not open 
his eyes to his folly, and during the two years and a half 
that she remained in England he spared no effort to bend 
her to his will. But Isabel was as determined as 
he, and in her refusal was supported by the French 
council of regency — for at this time her father was 
insane. 

After much consideration and many messages passing 
between London and Paris it was finally settled that 
Isabel should be restored to France and allowed to live 
with her family. But in all these transactions the mean- 
ness of Henry's nature came out. When we remember 
that Richard had appropriated the revenues of the lands 
of Lancaster to defray the expenses of the Irish expedi- 
tion we may perhaps find some excuse for his division of 
Isabel's jewels amongst his children (though a large 
number of them had been given her in France); but he 
pretended that he had ordered their return, which was 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 307 

plainly untrue, and declined to give her and her attend- 
ants proper clothes for their journey. The French 
court was far more indignant with his conduct than Isabel 
who, still stncken with grief and wearied with im- 
pnsonment was longing to be back in her own country. 
At the end of May Isabel set out from Havering with 
a great tram of ladies, the noblest in the land. They 
rode slowly for the roads were bad, and in the towns 

and'tdT r r l!"-'"" '^"^ '° """'I- ^' "^« beauty 
and sad face of the 'little queen,' whose six years of 
sovereignty had held more of sorrow than the lifetime of 
many of those who watched her. Through the green fields 
and pas the country houses at Tottenham and Hackney 
she went, fll at length she reached the Tower, and her 
cheeks grew wh te as she glanced at the great hall which 
was the scene of Richard's abdication. Happy memories 
there were, too of her early married life, and of h 
progress through the City; but these did not bear think- 
kind. '^ """^ t^^ '^'^'"^ '"™^<1 ^"'l spoke some 

EeSdZ ' °" '°""'"^ °' Hereford, who was 

During the six weeks that Isabel remained in the Tower 
Henry renewed his son's suit, and urged truly that 

The prince of Wales, boy though he was, had always 

h?'I th :r^ l''""'' '"^^^ "^= "'' P™-- like 
she nnf K ^^ ' ?t "°^ "'"* '^' ^^' ^''^ ^^V should 
have h rr" "^ f"^'''"'^ ^g^-'"^' And so she might 
have been had not the shadow of Richard lain between 
them, once more she refused, though she liked the youth 
well, and would have been content to know that years after 
she was dead he would marry her sister Katherine It 
was only on French soil that Isabel parted .' h tear 
from her English ladies, to whom she gave as emem 
brances the ew jewels she had left. Then she wafdt 
hvered by Sir Thomas Percy to the count de St Pol 
was was waiting with a company of high-born damsels 



308 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

seht to attend on her, and by him she was conducted to 
the dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon, with an armed 
force at their back. •' - i^^o; mi ;-'./; n- 

So the merry Httle %ii4' of^se^h 'years" 'did came home 
again, sad, widowed, and penniless, for Henry had 
refused to restore her dowry or to make her the customary 
allowance. This behaviour so enraged her uncle, Louis 
duke of Orleans, that he is said to have challenged Henry 
to fight a duel, but Henry had rephed that no king 
ever fought with a subject, even one of royal blood. 
Isabel herself cared little about the matter. She found, 
on arriving in Paris, that things were changed very 
much for the worse. Her father's fits of madness were 
more frequent and more severe, her mother was more 
bent on pleasure, and her children were more neglected 
than before. Isabel did what she could, we may be sure; 
but the queen of France, though she omitted to perform 
her own duty, would not suffer it to be done by other 
people; and Isabel, finding she could be of little use, 
passed most of her time with her uncle, the duke of 
Orleans, and his wife, Violante Visconti. 

Now the duke of Orleans had a son, Charles, three 
years younger than the 'queen of England,' and it was 
his cherished plan to marry him to his niece. The two 
cousins had much in common; they both loved music, 
and old , romances, and songs, and Charles had already 
begun to write some of those poems that sound sweet in 
our ears to-day. Of course the boy was too young 
for a marriage to be spoken of at present, but after a while 
it became understood that the ceremony of betrothal 
would shortly take place. Isabel had not given her 
consent (in those times that counted for little) without 
a long strugorle. The memorv of Richard was still 
green m her heart, but she was alone in the world. 
Nobody wanted her except her uncle and aunt, and hei" 
friend Charles. Oh yes! and one other, but she would 



THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 3ai> 

not think of him. Charles was her friend, and in a way 
she loved him; so, to his great joy, she promised to be his 
wife, and when she burst into tears during the magnificent 
ceremony of betrothal he imagined ,that she was tired 
with all the feasting, and he led her away to rest apd 
read her the little song he .jbajdv^^^t^^il .^,jSi]^o^^i\\^ip^^ 

selves. ... -If, ]-!\ i',:\ ;.;T^ . , r^LW^<Wi, 

A year after the betrothal the duke of Orleans was. 
stabbed by the duke of Burgundy in the street^ of 
Paris. No notice was taken ol the murder,, , isO; ; Isabel, 
and her mother-in-law dressed themselves in deep 
mourning and, mounting in front of the carriage, which 
was drawn by white horses with black housings, they 
drove weeping to the Hotel de St. Pol, where the king wa§,, 
followed by a long train of servants and attendants. 
But Charles was in no state to settle these questions, 
for any excitement only brought on a paroxysm. The 
duke's murder remained unavenged, and a year after- 
wards his widow died, deeply mourned by her son and 
by Isabel, to whom in the last years she had been a true 
mother. 

It was only in 1408 that Isabel was really married to 
her cousin, and the one year that was left to her to live 
was a very happy one. If she had not forgotten Richard, 
Charles had grown to be part of herself, and once more 
she was heard to laugh and jest as of old. But in 
September 1409 a little daughter was born, and in a few 
hours after the mother lay dead with hex, baby beside her. 
At first it was thought her husband would die too, 
so frantic was his grief, as the poems in which he poured 
out his heart bear witness. But after a while he roused 
himself to care for the child, and later to fight for his coun? 
try, and was taken prisoner at Agincourt by Isabel's old 
suitor, Henry V. Orleans was brought to England, 
and in the Tower, where he was imprisoned for twenty- 
three years, he had ample time to think about his lost 
wife — of her life in that very Tower, of her body resting 



310 THE 'LITTLE QUEEN' 

quietly in the abbey of St. Lammer at Blois. It lay in 
the abbey for over two hundred years, and was found, in 
the reign of Louis XIII., perfect as in life, the linen clothes 
having been wrapped in quicksilver. By this time 
the Valois had passed away from the throne of France, 
and their cousins the Bourbons reigned in their stead, 
and by them Isabel's body was reverently brought 
from Blois and laid in the sepulchre of the dukes of 
Orleans. 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

And what became of the Ladies Blanche and Philippa, 
the playmates of the 'Little Queen'? Well, Blanche's 
life was, unlike that of her friend, a very happy 
one; but she and the 'Little Queen' died, strange to 
say, in the same year, leaving behind a son and a 
daughter. Philippa lived many years longer, but she 
had no children, and her husband was restless and 
quarrelsome, and always at war with his neighbours; and 
Philippa had often to govern the kingdom in his absence, 
and ruled a great deal better than he did himself. But 
this all happened 'by-and-by,' and we must begin at the 
beginning. 

Towards the end of Edward III.'s reign there died 
Humphrey de Bohun, the great earl of Hereford, leaving 
a widow and two daughters. These little girls, w^hose 
names were Eleanor and Mary, were the richest 
heiresses in England, and many greedy eyes were cast 
upon them and the vast estates which they were to share. 
Mary was a mere baby at her father's death, and 
Eleanor only a few years older, so for a while they lived 
quietly at home with their mother; but as soon as 
Eleanor was old enough to marry, the king's youngest 
son, Thomas of Woodstock, then earl of Buckingham, 
and later duke of Gloucester, came forward as a wooer. 
His offer was accepted by the countess of Hereford, and 
after the ceremony was completed he took his young bride 
to Pleshy in Essex, one of her own estates. Mary 

311 



312 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

remained with her mother, under the care of John of 
Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, who was her guardian. 

Now, rich though he had become through his mar- 
riage, the earl of Buckingham was not content, and 
longed to become richer still and more powerful than 
either of his elder brothers, Lancaster and York. So, 
under pretext that he was frequently obliged to be away 
at the wars, and that his wife was very lonely during his 
absence, he prevailed on the duke of Lancaster to allow 
Mary de Bohun (at this time about eleven years old) to 
come to Pleshy and keep her sister company. Once at 
Pleshy, Buckingham believed that his persuasive tongue 
would easily turn the girl's thoughts to a religious life, — 
for she was quiet and gentle, and liked music and books 
better than tournaments and dances, — and when she 
had become a nun, her money and lands would go to 
him and his children. Thus he plotted in his secret 
heart, for he was too wary to take any man into his con- 
fidence; but he constantly sent for the nuns from the 
convent of St. Clare 'to attend her and tutor her in 
matters of religion, continually blaming the married 
state.' Great, we may feel sure, was his delight when 
he saw that 'the young lady seemed to incline to their 
doctrine, and thought not of marriage.' 

Careful as was the earl to hide his plans, whispers got 
abroad as to the frequent visits of the nuns to Pleshy, 
and reached the ears of the duke of Lancaster. . It 
happened that Lancaster also had a son, a handsome 
and promising youth, called Henry of Bolingbroke, eari 
of Derby, and, says Froissart, 'the duke had for some 
time considered that he could not choose a more 
desirable wife for him than the lady who was intended 
for a nun, as her estates were very large and her birth 
suitable to any rank; but he did not take any steps in 
the matter till his brother of Buckingham had set out 
on his expedition to France. When Buckingham had 
crossed the sea, the duke of Lancaster had the young 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 313 

lady conducted to Arundel castle, for the aunt of the 
two heiresses was the sister of Richard, earl of Arundel. 
At the desire of the duke of Lancaster, and for the 
advancement of her niece, this lady went to Pleshy, 
where she remained with the countess of Buckingham 
and her sister fifteen days. On her departure, she 
managed so well that she carried the lady Mary with 
her to Arundel, where the betrothal between her and 
Henry took place.' 'The earl of Buckingham,' ends the 
chronicler, 'felt no desire to laugh when he heard these 
tidings; and when he learned that his brothers had all 
been concerned in this affair he became melancholy, and 
never after loved the duke of Lancaster, as he had 
hitherto done.' 

We do not know exactly what Eleanor thought about 
it all. Most likely she was delighted that her beautiful 
young sister should get a husband whom she could love, 
though she was too much afraid of the earl of Bucking- 
ham to approve openly. The bride went back at once to 
her mother, and a large sum was allowed by her 
guardian for her expenses, though Mary cared but little 
for the fine clothes and extra servants that were given 
her, and busied herself with her books and music as before. 
If she wanted amusement, were there not the min- 
strels and jongleurs, singers and dancers, whom young 
king Richard had brought over from France; and 
could she wish anything better than to sit and listen to 
their songs, while she sat close to the window to get light 
for her embroidery? 

As Mary's fourteenth birthday approached, an ever- 
increasing stir might be noticed in the castle. Travelling 
merchants drew up in the courtyard, accompanied by 
pack-horses laden with rare silks and velvets and laces. 
These were carried into lady Derby's bower, and she and 
her mother spent hours in fingering the stuffs and de- 
termining which to take and which to leave. Jewellers 
too rode down from London, with an escort of armed 



314 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

servants, for highwaymen were much to be dreaded on 
the lonely heaths; and then at last came the journey to 
Arundel, where Henry was waiting for Mary; and her 
wedding day drew near. 

Unlike some of the marriages common in those 
times, as well as these, this wedding was not merely 
a matter of riches on one side and high rank on the 
other. Henry and Mary loved each other dearly, and 
nothing ever came between them. Mary was always 
ready to be pleased with everything and everybody, and 
made friends at once with her sisters-in-law: Phihppa, 
two years older than herself, and by-and-by to be queen 
of Portugal; and Elizabeth, about her own age, who soon 
after married the earl of Huntingdon, half-brother 
of the king. The chapel of Arundel must have been 
a fair sight during the ceremony, with all the gallant young 
nobles and their youthful wuves, and no handsomer 
pair was present than king Richard with his queen, 
Anne of Bohemia, now a bride of two years' stand- 
ing. Knowing Mary de Bohun's passionate love of 
music, Richard had brought his court minstrels with 
him, and sweetly they sang through the banquet which 
followed the marriage. And never once did the bride's 
thoughts stray back to the nuns of St. Clare, or her heart 
'blame the marriage state.' 

When the rejoicings were over, the earl and countess 
of Derby bade their friends farewell, and journeyed down 
to the hilly west country, to their home in Monmouth 
castle, where the little river Monmow flows into the 
Wye. Mary would gladly have stayed there for ever, 
but soon Henry was called away to fight, and her mother 
came to keep her company. In a little while she 
had another companion also, who took up all her time 
and attention, her baby, Henry of Monmouth, afterwards 
Henry V. Thus the years came and went, and the earl 
of Derby was sometimes at home, but more often 
travelHng. At one moment he joined the band of 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 315 

Teutonic knights who were fighting some pagan tribes 
on the south-east coasts of the Baltic, with the hope of 
converting them. Then he sailed for Morocco, and later 
visited Austria, and altogether he must have had many 
interesting adventures to tell his wife whenever he re- 
turned to England. Meanwhile four little boys were 
growing up under their mother's care, and in 1392 his 
eldest daughter was born in Peterborough, where lady 
Derby was then living, and was christened Blanche after 
her grandmother. More than a year later Blanche had 
a little sister to play with, and to her was given the name 
of Philippa, after the Queen of Edward III. 

Henry of Monmouth, the eldest of the six children, 
was only seven years old when, in 1395, his mother died 
after a short illness, and the countess of Hereford took 
her place. Lady Hereford was a very different woman 
from Mary, and thought that children should be kept at 
a distance, so, though she meant to be kind to them, they 
missed their mother deeply. Mary had never been too 
busy to listen to them, or to play with them, or to sing 
them old songs, but now everyone was in too much of a 
hurry to pay them any attention. Soon they were re- 
moved into Lincolnshire, and shortly afterwards Henry, 
whom the rest considered a man and full of wisdom, was 
sent to Leicester, and little John to his kinswoman the 
lady Margaret Plantagenet. 

In this manner things continued for a year, and when 
the day of their mother's death came round again, the 
countess of Hereford ordered fresh suits of deep mourning 
to be prepared for herself and her little granddaughters, 
and set forth with a train of servants to the Abbey at Leices- 
ter, where Mary de Bohun was buried. Blanche and 
Philippa, who were now only three and four, had 
forgotten what their mother was like, and the long hours 
passed kneehng in the black-hung chapel must have seemed 
endless to them, and very trying to their poor Httle backs; 
but they were delighted to see Henry again and to 



f?10 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

watch the twenty-four poor women, who each received 
a warm black cloak, in memory of the dead lady who 
was twenty-four when she died. And they hung about 
Henry and admired him, while he on his part told them 
how much he had learned since he last saw them, and 
bade them take heed to their lessons, and learn courtly 
ways and manners. Then they returned to Bytham, and 
the next morning, when they looked round for their dark 
dresses, they had vanished, and instead gay scarlet frocks 
edged with green lay in their place. If they went out to 
walk in the stately garden, or accompanied their grand- 
mother on a visit to some neighbour in the big stuffy coach, 
they were wrapped up in hoods and cloaks to match if 
the weather was cold, while on the occasions that a 
great lord or noble lady spent a few days at Bytham cloth 
of gold and ermine capes were put on their small figures, 
and golden coronets upon their heads, in case they should 
be summoned into the hall to pay their respects. A few 
months after their journey to Leicester their grand- 
mother considered it was time that they should each 
be given special attendants, and sometimes even a house 
of their own. One would have thought that with the 
number of servants already in the castle two or three 
nurses and governesses would have been enough for little 
girls of three or four, but children in those times 
were treated very differently. The ladies Blanche and 
Philippa had cooks and scullions, pages and waiting- 
maids, and a steward called John Green, who kept 
all the servants in order. They also had a head- 
governess, and a knight of the chamber, named Sir 
Hugh Waterton, in whom their father placed absolute 
Irust. Indeed they were sent to pass a whole year in 
his house at Eton, which must have been very large if 
it was able to hold all his servants as well as theirs, and 
when they left they paid some visits to their rela- 
tions, before joining their father in his beautiful home at 
Bishopsgate, on the outskirts of London. Rich people 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 317 

changed their houses very often then, for though they 
were rich they were not clean, and the houses became 
unhealthy. 

In spite of his long absences, the earl of Derby had 
always been very fond of his children, and Blanche and 
Philippa were enchanted to go and live with him again, 
and to watch their two eldest brothers, Henry and 
Thomas, taking their daily riding lessons, while their 
father, who next to king Richard was the best horseman 
of the day, corrected their faults. How Philippa longed 
to have a pony too, and to jump the barricades with 
them. She was sure sJie would not fall off any more than 
Thomas did — why should she? Of course Henry 
was different, she could never sit as he did; why, he did 
not move when Black Roland gave that plunge! but her 
father said she was too little and must wait awhile, and 
wait she did. But when Blanche was married, and 
PhiHppa, though only nine, was, 'the first Lady of 
England,' what a store of horses and saddles and housings 
her stables could show! 

Whatever attention was paid to their manners, 
neither Blanche nor Philippa seems to have learnt any- 
thing, though it is very certain that had their mother lived 
she would have taught them as she had taught Henry. 
But when the 'Little Queen' came to Court, and 
people talked of the songs she knew, and the tales she 
had by heart, and the poetry she could repeat, the earl 
of Derby felt ashamed of the ignorance of his own little 
girls. So he ordered some alphabets for them, and very 
costly they were, for there was no printing then, and books 
were all written and copied mostly by the monks, who 
often put beautiful pictures in them. The children 
were both clever, and anxious to imitate the queen, to 
whom they paid frequent visits, and as she could dance 
and play the lute, of course they must do so too. But it 
was more difficult for Blanche to do her lessons than her 
sister, as she was constantly sent for by her father to be 



318 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

present at some banquet to his friends, and though she 
was no more than six, the child knew how to behave Hke 
a grown-up woman, and never showed when she was 
tired or bored. 

But all this came to an end a few months later, when 
the King suddenly banished the earl of Derby for ten 
years, just after he had created his cousin duke of Here- 
ford. At Richard's wish, the little girls and their 
brother Henry, now an undergraduate of Queen's College, 
Oxford, were sent to Windsor Castle, to be brought up 
with queen Isabel. The king was always fond of chil. 
dren, and treated them all kindly, Henry in particular. 
And Henry never forgot this, and one of his first acts after 
succeeding to the throne was to bring Richard's body 
up from its resting-place at Langley, and bury it with 
honours in Westminster Abbey. 

After Richard II. had abdicated and died, and Henry, 
now duke of Lancaster, was crowned as king Henry IV., 
the princess Blanche was forced by her father to take 
her mother's place entirely. It was she of whom the 
knights had to ask leave before fighting in a tournament, 
and it was she who gave the prize to the victor. How 
glad Blanche felt for the months she had passed by the 
side of the 'Little Queen', when she had learned from 
her how such things ought to be done! And Blanche's 
thoughts would go back to her former playfellow, and 
all the troubles she was passing through, and tears of 
sorrow would fill her eyes, for the princess was always 
faithful and loving to her friends. 

It was early in 1401 that the emperor sent over mes- 
sengers from Germany to ask for the hand of the 
princess Blanche for his son Lewis. Henry IV. had just 
returned from fighting some Welsh rebels, and he 
would much have Hked to have kept his Httle girl with 
him for a few years longer; but the marriage pleased him, 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 319 

and he readily gave his consent. In general, as we 
know, the bride was suffered to remain at home for some 
time after the ceremony of betrothal, but the emperor 
desired that Blanche should come over at once to her 
new country, so she was bidden to begin her preparations 
as soon as possible. 

The two little sisters were very sad when they heard 
their father's decision. They had never been separated 
in their lives, and how strange and dreadful it would feel 
not to be able to talk together about all that interested 
them! Of course they knew they would be married 'some 
day,' but 'some day' is always a long way off, and 
meantime there were journeys and tournaments and music, 
and all manner of delightful things in the world, especially 
horses. 

'Oh, you must give a prize to that grey horse!' Philippa 
would whisper in Blanche's ear, as she sat by her side 
at the lists at a tourney. 

'But how can I,' asked Blanche, 'if the knight that 
rides him is not the victor?' 

'Oh, he must be when he has a horse like that,' 
Philippa would answer. Then the trumpet would sound, 
and the eyes of both children would be fixed on the field. 
Now it was Philippa whose lot it would be to give 
the prize, and Blanche would be far away amongst 
strangers. 

The young leaves were out, and the 'ways and the 
woods smelt sweet,' when the day of parting actually 
came. ' They say the lord Lewis is good and kind, and 
has many books and a number of minstrels about him,' 
observed Philippa, who always tried to make the best 
of things. 'You will write and tell me what he is like, 
and about your palace, and your wedding. Oh, and you 
will promise to be married in the dress of cloth of gold that 
you bought from master Richard Whittington, who 
had the black cat which made his fortune? It is 
so much, much more beautiful than any of the rest!' 



320 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTITER 

Then good-bye was said, and Blanche began her journey 
with the household that her father had formed for her. 
The countess of Salisbury was her lady-in-waiting, and 
Henry could not have made a better choice. Blanche's 
old friend John Green was to go too, and the child's heavy 
heart grew a little lighter as she remembered that here 
was someone who knew all about her, and who could 
talk of Philippa and her brothers as well as she could her- 
self. And besides the servants and attendants of every 
degree, her uncle the duke of Somerset was in charge 
of the party, together with the bishop of Worcester, who 
was to perform the marriage. 

It was high summer before Blanche reached Cologne, 
for travelling was slow in those days, and many times she 
stopped to rest and to receive guests who came to 
give their homage to the daughter-in-law of the emperor. 
But at length the town w^as in sight, and a halt was called, 
so that Blanche might be gaily dressed in one of her 
grand new dresses, while her golden coronet w^as 
placed upon her flowing hair and her collar of pearls 
was hung round her neck. Then she mounted the 
white horse with silver trappings which had been sent 
expressly for her, and wondered as she did so what 
Philippa would have thought of him. The emperor was 
not present at Cologne, for business had kept him else- 
where, but his son Lewis, the bridegroom, was awaiting 
her at the gate, with an escort of nobles behind him. He 
looked, as Philippa had said, good and kind and very 
pleased to see her, and that was all that Blanche cared 
for, as, unHke queen Isabel, she had no wish to be ' a great 
lady.' But her attendants felt that a shght had been 
put on their king and their country, and murmured 
among themselves at the emperor's absence. How- 
ever they were wise enough to hold their peace in 
the presence of the Germans, and not to mar the 
wedding festivities with cross faces. And Blanche was 
married three days later in Dick Whittington's famous 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 321 

gold brocade, and once more she gave away the prizes 
at a tourney. 

Perhaps the feehngs of the Enghsh might have been 
soothed if they had seen the welcome given their 
princess by the emperor in his palace of Heidelberg, and 
his admiration of her beauty. She touched his heart 
by her modesty and unselfishness, and he feU he 
had done well in choosing his son's wife. Blanche 
was grateful for his kindness, and soon loved him and 
her husband dearly, while she was never tired of standing 
at the windows of the castle, whose ruins you may see 
to-day, looking over the broad Rhine and the vine-clad 
mountains. Here she had more time for reading, too, 
as there were no great Court ceremonies that needed her 
presence, and her husband would tell her tales of bygone 
emperors, and teach her how to speak his native tongue, 
which she found much more difficult than French. 

'How can I remember all those different endings?' 
she cried, 'and by the time I come to the verb, I have 
quite forgotten what I was going to say! and Lewis — 
who bade her call him ' Ludwig ' — would laugh, and relate 
to her the brave deeds of Henry the Fowler, or recite some 
verses of the 'Lay of the Nibelungs,' till Blanche would 
stop her ears at the cruelties of Brunhilda and Chriemhild. 
Or if the days were fine the husband and wife would go' 
out together, and visit some church or citizen's house 
that was being built, and Lewis, who had much skill 
in these things, would show Blanche the wonderful 
carving or bid her mark the fine proportions of the 
architecture. Blanche — the 'electoral princess ' — would 
have hked to stay in Heidelberg, but after awhile she 
was obHged to leave Cologne to go to Alsace, and preside 
over a Court again. She always did what came in her 
way pleasantly and graciously, but she was very sorry 
to give up her happy life, with its books and music and 
church-building, and pass her time in pubHc ceremonies, 
even though the little Court of Alsace was much quieter 
22 



322 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

and more homely than that of either Richard II. or her 
own father. But the dimate did not agree with her, 
and as she grew older she also grew more delicate. This 
she managed to conceal from her husband who was busy 
with many things, fearing to distress him, and she kept 
gay words and a smile for everyone as long as she pos- 
sibly could. But at length she grew too weak to ride or 
walk, and by-and-by lay amongst pillows at her window 
gazing at the mountains, and now and then saying a word 
to her husband, who never left her when he could help it. 

One day, early in May, when the birds were singing 
and the streams gurgling, he returned from a long jour- 
ney to find Blanche lying with a little son beside her and 
a look of rapture on her face. 

'Ah, you will get better now!' he cried joyfully, noting 
the happiness in her eyes; but she said nothing, only 
kissed his hand, and drew it towards the baby. And 
she was right: from that moment she grew worse, 
and a few days later she was dead, leaving this one child 
behind her. Hardly sixteen! yet how well and nobly 
she had filled the place and done the duties that had been 
given her! 

The news of Blanche's death was a terrible grief to 
her father in England, and to her sister Philippa, who had 
been for nearly three years queen of Denmark. It was 
not that they ever saw her — perhaps they never would — 
but they felt she was there, thinking about them and caring 
for them; and what joyful days those were when a special 
courier or travelling knight brought them letters from 
her! Yet as she read with streaming eyes what her brother- 
in-law, 'the lord Lewis,' had written, Philippa's heart 
ached for herself, as well as for the dead girl. Blanche's 
life at least had been happy from first to last, but to Philippa 
some bad days had already come, and others were casting 
shadows before them. 

Except for parting from Blanche, PhiKppa had also 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 328 

had a happy childhood, and she being very Hvely and 
full of plans, nobody ever felt dull in her presence. 
No sooner had Blanche set out on her journey to Cologne 
than Henry was obliged to go into Wales, and he left 
Philippa and her second brother, John, duke of Bedford, 
together with the children of the late earl of March, 
under the care of Sir Hugh Waterton at Berkhamstead 
Castle. It was summer, and the pretty Hertfordshire 
commons were golden with gorse and sweet with bushes 
of wild roses and honeysuckle, and, strictly guarded 
though they were, Philippa and the rest had many a merry 
gallop over the grass, for her love of horses had become 
a passion with her. Sometimes, when they were tired of 
playing, she and John used to walk soberly up and down 
the alleys in the castle garden, talking of their new step- 
mother — for even before the departure of Blanche Henry 
had been married 'by proxy' to the widowed duchess of 
Bretagne, Jane of Navarre. 

' She sounded kind in the letter she wrote,' said Phihppa 
in a doubtful tone, ' and if Blanche had been here I should 
not have been afraid. But suppose she should be Hke 
the stepmothers in the nursery tales, and send me down 
into the kitchen to do scullion's work!' 

'And do you think the king would not miss you and 
bring you back?' asked John mockingly. 'Oh, Philippa, 
what nonsense you talk, and what a bad scuUion you 
would make!' and they both laughed, * and PhiHppa's 
tears, which had been very near her eyes, went back to 
their proper place. 'Besides,' continued John, 'remem- 
ber that she will not be here for many months yet, and 
during all that time yoit will have to take Blanche's place, 
and preside at the pageants and tourneys. And then, 
when she does come, she will bring her daughters, the 
ladies Blanche and Marguerite, with her.' 

'Just like the nursery tales,' thought Philippa to her- 
self; but before she could say more the Httle Mortimers 
ran up to say that the sun was now sinking, and they CQuld 



324 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

have a game of hoodman blind without getting too hot. 
And in chasing her cousins all over the garden Philippa 
forgot the terrors of a stepmother. 

She need not, however, have been afraid. When queen 
Jane and her daughters arrived at Winchester, wearied 
with their long, cold, and muddy ride all the way 
from Falmouth, their hearts warmed to the hand- 
some, bright-faced child standing a little behind her 
father in the hall of the castle. Philippa's own fears 
melted away like snow as she saw how pale and tired 
they all looked, and with genuine kindness (mixed per- 
haps with a feeling of importance) she ordered hot pos- 
sets to be brought instantly to warm them, and begged 
them to be seated in the great chimney-place till supper 
was ready. 

Though her new subjects never forgave queen Jane 
for having a large train of French people ever about 
her, which was foolish and ill-judged on her part, she 
alv/ays showed great wisdom in her dealings with her 
husband's daughter. She knew that, owing to her mother's 
early death and her sister's marriage, Philippa had had 
a great deal more hberty than most princesses of her 
age, and that it would be very hard for her to be ban- 
ished from court festivities, or to remain in the back- 
ground like her own Httle girls. Perhaps she, too, had 
read some of the nursery tales, which are the same all 
over the world, and remembered about cruel stepmothers 
and ill-treated stepdaughters; but at any rate, as far 
as possible, she left Philippa alone, and the child saw 
this and was grateful. She was quite content with her 
Hfe and her playfellows, and tried to forget the marriage 
which had been arranged for her at Berkhamstead, and 
which threatened to put an end to it all! 

While they had been living in Hertfordshire an 
embassy had arrived from Margaret, queen of Norway, 
Sweden, and Denmark, seeking a wife for Eric, her great- 
nephew and successor. Considering that it was only 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 325 

six years since the three kingdoms had been united in 
one, and that Eric, changeable, weak and hasty, showed 
small signs of following in his aunt's footsteps, and being 
able to hold the kingdom together, we cannot help 
wondering why Henry did not refuse Margaret's offer 
and wait for a better match. But, curiously enough, he 
seemed quite satisfied, and only stipulated that three 
years should pass before the contract was fulfilled. 
Philippa breathed a sigh of thankfulness. There was so 
little traffic with the North in those days that it seemed 
strange and far away; and besides, she was very happy 
as she was, and did not want to be married at all. But 
three years! Oh, that was an eternity! and as at 
present the marriage only meant, as far as she was con- 
cerned, the title of 'Queen of Denmark' and an 
establishment of her own, with as many horses as she 
could wish for, she enjoyed the pleasures she had, and 
shut her eyes to the price that must be paid for them. By- 
and-by there came the moment when her trousseau 
had to be got ready, but Philippa took far more heed of 
the housings and trappings of her horses, and of the 
cushions for her coaches, than of her own gowns, which 
queen Jane, whose taste was not bound down by strict 
fashion, ordered after her own fancy. In those days 
court dresses were embroidered with precious stones, and 
cost immense sums, and Philippa's wedding dress of 
cloth of gold, with the stomacher of pearls, cost the 
enormous sum of 250/. She was surprised and delighted 
when she saw it, and only wished Blanche could see it 
too, for she thought, though she was not quite sure, that 
it was even finer than the gold brocade of Master Whit- 
tington. 

All these things and a great many more having been 
prepared for her benefit, Philippa set out to pay some 
farewell visits to the friends and relations she was never 
hkely to see again. Between each visit she went back 
to her father at Eltham, for she wished to spend as much 



326 TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 

time as possible with him and the queen, who was now 
very lonely, as her own two daughters had returned to 
Brittany. Philippa's very last visit was to the bishop of 
Durham, and after that was ended the king and his four 
sons, together with the Swedish ambassadors who had 
been sent to escort the bride, took her to Lynn in Nor- 
folk. From here, says the chronicler Stow, 'in the month 
of May, 1406, dame Philip, the youngest daughter 
of king Henry, accompanied by divers lords spiritual 
and temporal, was shipped to the North and so conveyed 
to Denmark, where she was married to the king of that 
country in a city called London.' The vessel in which 
Philippa sailed was, of course, very different from any- 
thing we can imagine, and even when fitted up for a 
princess must have been very uncomfortable. It was 
the largest in the English navy, but would have looked 
very small in our eyes, and must have rolled terribly. The 
admiral of the North Sea was in command, and he 
placed on board some of the unwieldy cannon then used, 
in case pirates or foreign ships should be met with; but 
no mishap of any sort occurred, and Philippa landed 
safe in Sweden, where queen Margaret and the young 
king Eric gave her a hearty welcome. After a short rest 
they journeyed to Lund (or 'London' as Stow calls it), 
the old Swedish capital in the very south of the country, 
where Philippa's marriage and her coronation took 
place. 

From the day that Philippa set foot on board the 
vessel she left her childhood behind her. She felt that 
she was going, alone and for ever, to a land of which she 
knew nothing, with a language and customs entirely 
strange to her. It was enough to make a brave man 
sad, and Philippa was barely thirteen, yet she dared not 
show her grief or her fears for the sake of her father and 
brothers who were watching her anxiously. So she 
smiled and chattered up to the very last moment, and 
then came a storm of tears, as she clung silently to one 



TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER 327 

after the other. However, she had contrived to banish 
all traces of sorrow by the time she reached Sweden, and 
queen Margaret saw with pleasure the good sense 
and dignity which marked her behaviour. A girl who 
cared only for amusement would have been a bad wife 
for the young king, and have encouraged him to be more 
idle than he was already. But Phihppa, she w^as sure, 
was made of different stuff, and would some day walk in 
her own footsteps — if only she was sensible and would 
listen to her counsel! Philippa did listen, and it speaks 
highly for her that) though for the last five years she had 
been suffered to do very much as she liked, and had 
Hved more with horses than with books, she now, by the 
queen's wish, went meekly back to her lessons, and spent 
several hours a day in learning the history and Sagas 
(old stories) and languages of the three countries over 
which she was now queen. Margaret herself, queen of 
all three kingdoms, taught her the special laws and 
customs of each, and Philippa, to her surprise and dehght, 
took an interest in everything, and tried with all her might 
to do the things that Eric her husband left undone — 
which were many. Very soon the people came to know this, 
and they thanked her in their hearts and loved her dearly. 
So matters went on for six years, and though Philippa 
was not very happy with her husband, and had no 
children to comfort her, there was always queen Margaret 
to go to for help and consolation. But in 141 2 Margaret 
died, and then Philippa felt lonely indeed. However, she 
still strove to help her subjects, and had more power than 
most queens, because the king was always fighting with his 
neighbours, and left her to rule as she thought best. When 
her cares pressed heavily she used to go for a holiday 
to a Swedish convent, and there got strength to carry on 
her work. And thus, in harness, she died in 1430 at the 
age of thirty-seven; and nine years later king Eric, who 
had at last wearied out the patience of his people, was 
driven from the throne. 



THE TROUBLES OF THE PRINCESS 
ELIZABETH 

'What reign in English history do you like best to read 
about?' 

I think that if you were to put this question to twenty 
children you would get the same answer from at least 
fifteen. 

'Oh, Queen Elizabeth's, of course!^ And in many 
ways they would be quite right. After the long struggle 
of the Wars of the Roses, which had, a hundred years 
before, exhausted the country, the people were losing the 
feeling of uncertainty and anxiety that had possessed 
them for so many years, and were eager to see the world 
and to make new paths in many directions. The young 
men were so daring and gallant, so sure of their right to 
capture any ship laden with treasure they might meet on 
the high seas, so convinced that all. other nations — and 
Spaniards in particular — which attacked them, were 
nothing but pirates and freebooters, whose fit end was 
'walking the plank' into the sea, or being 'strung up on 
the yard arm,' that, as we read their stories, we begin to 
believe it too! And when we leave Drake and Frobisher 
and the rest behind, and turn to sir Walter Raleigh 
throwing down his cloak in the mud for the queen to 
tread on, and the dying sir Philip Sidney, on the field 
of Zutphen, refusing the water he so much needed be- 
cause the wounded soldier beside him needed it still 
more, we think that, after all, those days were really 
better than these, and life more exciting. If, too, we 

328 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 329 

should chance to love books better than tales of war, we 
shall meet with our old friends again in the beautiful songs 
that almost every gentleman of those times seemed 
able to make — Sidney, and Raleigh, and many another 
knight, as well as Shakespeare, and Marlowe, and Ben 
Jonson. The short velvet tunics and the small feathered 
hats, which was the ordinary dress of the young men of 
the period, set off, as w^e see in their portraits, the tall 
spare figures and faces with carefully trimmed pointed 
beards of the courtiers who thronged about the queen. 
While the head and crown of them all, restless, energetic, 
courageous as any man among them, was Elizabeth 
herself. 

Yes, there is a great deal to be said for the children's 
choice. 

But perhaps you would like to hear something of the 
life the queen led before she ascended the throne, which 
was not until she was twenty-five. As, no doubt, you 
all know, Henry VIII. had put away his wife Katharine 
of Aragon, aunt of the emperor Charles V., in order to 
marry the beautiful maid of honour Anne Boleyn; and his 
daughter Mary had shared her mother's fate. It was all 
very cruel and unjust — and in their hearts every one felt 
it to be so; but Henry managed to get his own way, and 
in January, 1533, made Anne Boleyn his wife. 

It was on September 7, in that same year, that Ehza- 
beth was born in the palace of Greenwich, in a room that 
was known as the 'Chamber of the Virgins,' from the 
stories told on the tapestries that covered the walls. The 
king w^as greatly disappointed that the baby did not prove 
to be a boy, but as that could not be helped he determined 
to make the christening as splendid as possible. So, as 
it was customary that the ceremony should take place a 
very few days after the child's birth, all the royal secre- 
taries and ofhcers of state were busy from morning till 
night, writing letters and sending out messengers to bid 



330 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

the king's guests assemble at the palace on the afternoon 
of September lo, to attend 'the high and mighty prin- 
cess' to the convent of the Grey Friars, where she was 
to be given the name of her grandmother, Elizabeth of 
York. 

At one o'clock the lord mayor and aldermen and city 
council dined together, in their robes of state; but the 
dinner did not last as long as usual, as the barges which 
were to row them to Greenwich were moored by the river 
bank, and they knew Henry too well to keep him wait- 
ing. The palace and courtyard were crowded with 
people when they arrived, and a few minutes later the 
procession was formed. Bishops wore their mitres and 
grasped their pastoral staffs, nobles were clad in long 
robes of velvet and fur, while coronets circled their heads. 
Each took his place according to his rank, and when the 
baby appeared in the arms of the old duchess of Norfolk, 
with a canopy over her head and her train carried behind 
her, the procession set forth, the earl of Essex going 
first, holding the gilt basin, followed by the marquis of 
Exeter and the marquis of Dorset bearing the taper and 
the salt, while to lady Mary Howard was entrusted the 
chrisom containing the holy oil. In this order the splen- 
did company passed down the road, which led from the 
palace and the convent, between walls hung with tapestry 
and over a carpet of thickly-strewn rushes. 

But in spite of the grandeur of Henry's prepara- 
tions, the godparents of the baby were neither kings 
nor queens, but only Cranmer, the newly-made arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, the old duchess of Norfolk, and lady 
Dorset. Henry knew full well that it would have been 
vain to invite any of the sovereigns of Europe to stand 
as sponsors to his second daughter: they were all too deeply 
offended at his divorce from Katharine of Aragon 
and at the quarrel with the Pope. He did not, however, 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 331 

vex himself in the matter, and took pleasure in seeing that 
the ceremony was as magnificent as if the child had had 
a royal princess for a mother, instead of the daughter of 
a mere country gentleman. At the close of the service the 
Garter King-at-Arms advanced to the steps of the altar, 
and facing the assembled congregation cried with a loud 
voice: 'God of His infinite goodness send a prosperous 
life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth 
of England.' Then a blast of trumpets sounded through 
the air, and the first act of Httle Elizabeth's public exist- 
ence began among the noise and glitter that she loved 
to the end. 

By this time it was growing dark, and everybody was 
hungry. As the church was not very far from the 
palace, it might have been expected that the com- 
pany would return there and sit down to a great 
banquet; but this was not Henry's plan. Instead, he had 
ordered that wafers, comfits and various kinds of light 
cakes should be handed round in church, with goblets 
full of hypocras to wash them down. When this was 
over, and the christening presents given, the procession 
re-formed in the same order, and lighted by five hundred 
torches set out for the palace by the river side, where their 
barges were awaiting them. 

For three months the baby was left with her mother at 
Greenwich, under the care of her godmother, the duchess 
of Norfolk, and lady Bryan, kinswoman to Anne Boleyn, 
who had brought up princess Mary. After that she was 
taken to Hatfield, in Hertfordshire, and then moved to 
the country palace of the bishop of Winchester, in the 
little village of Chelsea. The bishop's consent does not 
seem to have been asked, for the king never troubled him- 
self to inquire whether the owners of these houses cared 
to be invaded by a vast number of strangers. If he wished 
it, that was enough, and the poor bishop had to give up 
his own business, and spend all his time in making arrange- 



332 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

ments for the heiress of England — for so she was now 
declared to be — the rights of Mary being set aside. Right 
glad must he have been when the king's restless temper 
removed the baby again into Hertfordshire, to a house 
at Langley, and sought to provide her with a husband. 
The prince chosen, first of a long line of suitors, was Charles 
duke of Orleans, the third son of Francis I. of France. 
The match was in some ways a good one; but Henry wanted 
so many things which the French king could not grant 
that the plan had to be given up. In any case it could 
hardly have come to pass, as the boy died before his bride 
had reached her twelfth birthday. 

Having contrived to get rid of one wife when he was 
tired of her, Henry saw no reason why he should not 
dispose of his second for the same cause. Therefore, 
when he took a fancy to wed Jane Seymour, maid of honour 
to Anne, he thought no shame to accuse the queen of 
all sorts of crimes. One day the booming of the 
Tower guns told that the Traitors' gate leading down to 
the Thames had been opened, and Anne, whose life had 
been passed in pleasure and gaiety, stepped out of the 
barge; the laughter had died out of her eyes and the colour 
from her face. Well she knew the fate that awaited 
her, and in her heart she felt it was just. Had she not 
in like manner supplanted queen Katharine, and thrust 
her and her daughter from their rightful place? Thus 
she may have thought as her guards led her to her cell, 
from which she walked on May 19 to the scaffold on 
Tower Hill. 

'The young lady,' says Thomas Hey wood, 'lost a mother 
before she could do any more but smile upon her.' 
But ten days later her vacant throne was filled by Jane 
Seymour, whose brothers, Edward earl of Hertford and 
sir Thomas Seymour, were constantly seen at Court. 
Elizabeth, no longer heiress of the crown, had been sent 
down to Hunsdon, in Hertfordshire, under the care of 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 333 

lady Bryan and her kinsman Shelton, and here she was left, 
forgotten by everyone, and without any money being 
allowed for her support. As for clothes, she had really 
none, 'neither gown, nor petticoat, nor no manner of 
linen, nor kerchiefs, nor rails (or nightgowns), nor sleeves, 
nor many other things needed for a child of nearly three 
years old.' Neither, according to the rest of lady Bryan's 
letter to the king's minister, Thomas Cromwell, does she 
seem to have been provided with proper food. Lady 
Bryan evidently did not get on well with master Shelton, 
who shared her charge, and complains that he knows 
nothing about children, and wished Ehzabeth to dine and 
sup every day with the rest of the household, and that 
'it would be hard to restrain her grace from divers meats 
and fruits and wines that she would see on the table.' 
No doubt it was hard, for Elizabeth was always rather 
greedy, and set much store by what she ate and drank. 
Just at this time, too, simple food was specially neces- 
sary for her, as she had 'great pain with her great teeth 
which come very slowly forth'; and most likely she was 
rather cross and fretful, as children are apt to be when 
they have toothache; so lady Bryan is sorry for her, and 
'suffers her grace to have her will,' more than she would 
give her at other times. But when her teeth are 'well 
graft,' or cut, her governess trusts to God 'to have her 
grace after another fashion than she is yet, for she is as 
toward (or clever) a child and as gentle of conditions as 
ever I saw in my life.' 

It was not only lady Bryan whose soul was filled with 
pity at the forlorn situation of the little girl, whose birth 
had been made the occasion of such rejoicings. Her 
sister, princess Mary, now restored to favour, also en- 
treated the king on her behalf, but we are not told if their 
letters produced the changes prayed for. 

One day in October, 1537, when Elizabeth was just 
four and Mary about twenty-one, a messenger rode up 
to the house at Hunsdon, clad in the king's livery, and 



334 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

craved permission to deliver a letter to the princess. 
He was shown into the hall, and there, in a few morrients, 
the two sisters appeared. Bowing low before them, the 
man held out the folded paper, bound with a silken thread 
and sealed with the royal arms of England. Mary 
took it, guessing full well at its contents, which were, 
indeed, what she had supposed. A boy had been born to 
the queen, Jane Seymour, and the king summoned the 
prince's sisters to repair without delay to Westminster 
in order to be present at the christening of the 'Noble 
Impe.' 

Elizabeth, full of excitement, listened open-mouthed 
as princess Mary told her that they had a little brother, 
and were to ride next morning to London to see him in 
the palace. Like her father Henry VIH., whom she 
resembled in many ways, the little princess loved move- 
ment of any kind, and all her life was never so happy as in 
journeying from place to place, as the number of beds 
she is supposed to have slept in testify. Like the king 
also, she loved fine clothes; and the old chroniclers never fail 
to describe w^hat the king wore in the splendid pageants 
in which he delighted. His taste seems to have been 
very showy and rather bad. At one time he is dressed 
in crimson turned up with green, at another he is gor- 
geous in a mixture of red and purple. Ehzabeth, we 
may be sure, was arrayed in something very fine, as she 
proudly carried the chrisom containing the holy oil, with 
which the baby was to be anointed. Princess Mary, 
his godmother, held him at the font, and when the cere- 
mony was over, and they left the chapel, the king's two 
daughters went into the room where lay the dying queen. 

From that day Elizabeth had a new interest in life. 
She felt as if the little prince belonged to her, and when 
he gave signs of talking, she was sent for to London by the 
king 'to teach and direct him.' She made him a little 
shirt as a birthday present, and as he grew older she taught 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 335 

him easy games, and told him stories out of books. By- 
and-by she begun to repeat to him simple sentences in 
French, or Latin, or Italian, and when his tutors took 
him away, or she grew tired of being governess, she would 
practise her music on the viols, or try some new stitch 
in needlework. 

In this way time slipped by, and EHzabeth had passed 
her sixth birthday, when it became known at Court that 
the king was about to wed a fourth wife, and that his 
choice had fallen on princess Anne of Cleves. This new 
event was of the deepest interest to Ehzabeth, and she, 
at once, with her father's permission, wrote the bride 
a funny stiff note, 'to shew the zeal with which she de- 
voted her respect to her as her queen, and her entire obedi- 
ence to her as her mother.' 

This letter gave great pleasure to the German bride, 
and laid the foundation of a lasting friendship between 
the two. For though rather big and clumsy, and not 
at all to Henry's taste, Anne was very kind-hearted, 
and grateful to the Httle girl for her welcome. All 
the more did she value Elizabeth's affection because 
it was plain, from nearly the first moment, that the king 
had taken a violent dislike to her, and though she knew 
he would not dare to cut off her head, as he had done 
Anne Boleyn's, because she had powerful relations, yet she 
felt sure he would find some excuse to put her away. And 
so he did after a very few months; but during all that 
time Anne busied herself with the interests and lessons 
of the young princess, and when the decree of divorce 
was at last pronounced, begged earnestly that Elizabeth 
might still be allowed to visit her, as 'to have had the 
princess for a daughter would be a greater happiness 
than to be queen.' 

In reading about Elizabeth in later years we feel as 
if she much preferred the company of men to women; 
but in her childhood it was different, and the three step- 



336 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

mothers with whom she was brought in contact were all 
very fond of her. Jane Seymour, of course, she hardly 
knew, and besides, Elizabeth was only four when she 
died. But when the pretty and Hvely Katharine Howard 
stepped speedily into the place of the 'Flanders Mare' 
(for so, it is said, Henry called the stout Anne of Cleves), 
she insisted that the child should take part in all her wed- 
ding fetes, and being herself a cousin of Anne Boleyn, 
Elizabeth's mother, gave the princess the place of honour 
at the banquets. EHzabeth, no doubt, was flattered and 
pleased at the honours heaped on her, but in her secret 
heart she would rather have been with Anne of Cleves. 

Henry's marriage with Katharine Howard came to an 
end even more swiftly than his marriages were wont to 
do. This one only lasted six months, and after the 
queen's execution, which took place in February 1542, 
Elizabeth was sent to rejoin her sister Mary in the old 
palace of Havering-atte-Bower. Here she remained in 
peace for a whole year, as the king was too busy with 
affairs of state, with rebeUions in Ireland and a war with 
Scotland, to think about her, or even about a new 
wife. Still, marriage, either for himself or somebody 
else, was never far from Henry's mind, and soon after 
he not only offered Elizabeth's hand to the young 
earl of Arran, who did not trouble himself even to return 
an answer, but tried to obtain that of the baby queen 
of Scotland, Mary Stuart, for prince Edward. We all 
know how ill this plan succeeded, and that in the end, 
when Henry was dead and the English had again invaded 
Scotland, queen Mary was hurried by guardians over to 
France, and Edward VI. left to seek another bride. 'We 
like the match well enough, but not the manner of the 
wooing,' said the Scots, so Mary became queen of France 
as well as queen of Scotland. 

But all these things were still four years ahead, and Henry 
had yet to marry his sixth and last wife, Katharine Parr, 
the rich widow of lord Latimer. 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 337 

This event took place during the year 1543, when 
Katharine had been only a few months a widow. Unlike 
three out of her five predecessors her ancestry was 
as noble as that of the king himself, to whom, indeed, 
she was fourth cousin. Her mother had brought her up 
carefully and taught her to write her own language well, 
besides having her instructed in those of other countries. 
She insisted, too, on the child spending much of her time 
at needlework, which Katharine particularly hated, and 
escaped whenever she could. However, in spite of her 
dislike, she grew very clever with her fingers, and some 
beautiful pieces of embroidery still remain to show her 
skill. Katharine was fair and gentle, and full of sense 
and kindness, and as she was known to be a great heiress, 
her suitors were many. Before she was twenty she had 
been twice married, and had several stepchildren, and as 
she was often at Court, where many of her relations 
filled important offices, she was no stranger to Henry, 
who had great respect for her judgment. At Lord 
Latimer's death she was only thirty, and hardly was he 
buried when sir Thomas Seymour, the king's handsome 
and unscrupulous brother-in-law, began to woo her for his 
wife. Perhaps it was because he was so different from 
either of her previous husbands that lady Latimer fell 
in love with him, but before the marriage could be ac- 
complished Henry stepped in, and Seymour retired in 
haste. He knew better than to cross his sovereign's 
path! So six months after Latimer's death, his widow 
became queen of England, and Elizabeth went to live 
with her fourth stepmother. 

All her life Elizabeth was able, when she thought it 
worth her while, to make herself pleasant in whatever 
company she might be in; tyrannical and self-willed as she 
often proved in after -years, she invariably managed to 
control her temper and thrust her own wishes aside if she 
found that it was her interest to do so. She had learned 
23 



338 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

this in a hard school; but luckily she had the gift of 
attracting friends and keeping them, and as a child there 
was not one of her mother's successors on the throne — 
little though they had in common — who did not delight 
in Elizabeth's presence. Queen Katharine at once 
obtained the king's consent to fetch her to Whitehall, 
and to give her rooms next to the queen's own. Here 
the princess, now ten years old, could work under 
Katharine's eye, with her brother Edward, and, as Hey- 
wood says, 'Most of the frequent tongues of Christendom 
they now made theirs: Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, 
Dutch, were no strangers,' and by the time she was twelve 
Elizabeth knew^ a little about mathematics, astronomy 
and geometry; but history was her favourite study, and 
many were the hours she passed with old chronicles in 
her lap. Love of music she inherited from her father, who 
composed anthems, which you may still hear sung; and 
needlework had always been a pleasure to her, so that she 
had plenty to do all day. Now, every one w^ould declare 
that so much time spent over books was very bad for her, 
but Elizabeth never seemed any the worse, and could ride 
over heavy roads from dawn to dark without the least 
fatigue. If you wish to see a specimen of her labours 
you can find one in the British Museum, where lies a 
little book she made for her steprnother when she was 
staying at Hertford, which bears the date December 20, 
1545! It is a translation in French, Latin and Italian, 
done by Elizabeth herself, of some meditations and 
prayers written by the queen, and copied by the princess 
in a beautiful clear hand. The cover appears to be made 
of closely worked stitches of crimson silk on canvas, with 
the initials K. P. raised in blue and silver, which time 
has sadly tarnished. Perhaps it was meant for a Christ- 
mas present and a surprise for the queen, who must have 
been very pleased with her gift. 

Prince Edward was a delicate child, and most likely 
for that reason he was sent down by his father to live at 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 339 

Hatfield House, with Elizabeth to keep him company. 
Hatfield had formerly belonged to the bishops of Ely; 
but a mere question of possession mattered no more to 
Henry than it had done to Ahab before him, and, hke 
Ahab, he took for his own the land he coveted, and gave 
the unwilling bishops other property in exchange. Here 
in the park, through which the river Lea ran on its way 
to join the Thames, Edward and Elizabeth could wander 
as they pleased, while inside the beautiful house, part 
of which had been built in the reign of Edward IV., they 
did their lessons with the excellent tutors the king had 
chosen for them. One of these. Sir Anthony Cooke, 
was allowed to have his daughters with him, and these 
young ladies, afterwards as famous for their learning as 
their father, were destined to be closely bound up in Eliz- 
abeth's life, as the wives of Bacon and of Burleigh. So, 
'these tender young plants, being past the sappy age,' 
as Heywood poetically calls them, spent some happy 
months, till an event happened which changed everything 
for everybody. 

On January 30, 1547, EHzabeth was at Enfield, where 
she had been passing the last few weeks, when to her 
surprise she beheld, as dusk was falling, her brother, 
whom she imagined to be at Hertford, riding up to the 
house with his uncle, Edward Seymour earl of Hertford 
on one side, and sir Anthony Brown on the other. The 
prince glanced up at the window and waved his hand as 
she leant out, but Elizabeth, who was quick to notice, 
thought that, even in the dim light, the faces of his escort 
looked excited and disturbed. In a few minutes they were 
all in the room, where a bright fire was blazing on the 
huge hearth, and then, hat in hand, the earl told them 
both that their father was dead, and that his son was now 
king of England. 

The brother and sister gazed at each other in silence. 
Then Elizabeth buried her head on Edward's shoulder, 



340 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

and they wept bitterly and truly. As yet neither of them 
had suffered much from Henry's faults, and though 
Edward had been his favourite just because he was a boy 
and his successor, he had been proud of Elizabeth's tal- 
ents and her likeness to himself. Thus, while many 
in England who had trembled for their heads felt his 
death to be a deliverance, to two out of his three children 
it was a real sorrow\ Poor Mary had suffered too much, 
both on her own account and on her mother's, to have 
any feeling but a dull w^onder as to her future. 

The reading of the king's will did something, however, 
to soothe her bitter recollections, for it placed her in the 
position w^hich was hers by right, heiress of the kingdom 
should her brother die childless, and in like manner 
Elizabeth was to succeed her. Meanwhile, they both 
had three thousand a year to live on — quite a large sum 
in those days — and ten thousand pounds as dowry, if 
they married with the consent of the young king and his 
council. 

The moment that Henry was dead Katharine Parr 
left the palace and went to her country house at Chelsea 
— close to w^here Cheyne pier now stands; and here she 
was immediately joined by EHzabeth, at the request of 
the council of regency. Katharine had been in every 
way a good wife to Henry, and had nursed him with a 
care and skill shown by nobody else during the last long 
months of his illness. He depended on her entirely for 
the soothing of his many pains, yet it was at this very 
time that, he listened to the schemes of her enemies, who 
were anxious to remove her from the king's presence, and 
consented to a bill of attainder being brought against her, 
by which she would have lost her head. Accident re- 
vealed the plot to Katharine, and by her cleverness she 
managed to avert the danger — though she never breathed 
freely again as long as the king was alive. 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 341 

The old friendship between Katharine and her step- 
children was destined to receive a severe shock, and in 
this matter the two princesses were in the right, and the 
queen wholly wrong. It came about in this way. 

As far as we can gather from the rather confused 
accounts, sir Thomas Seymour, Katharine Parr's old 
lover, a man as greedy and ambitious as he was hand- 
some, had taken advantage of Henry's affection for him 
to try to win the heart of the princess Ehzabeth, not long 
before the king's death. As she was at that time Kving 
at Hertford, under the care of a vulgar and untrustworthy 
governess, Mrs. Ashley, it would have been easy for Sey- 
mour to ride to and fro without anyone in London being 
the wiser. Certain it is that, from whatever motive, he 
was most anxious to marry her, and a month after her 
father's death wrote, it is said, a proposal to the princess 
in person — a very strange thing to do in those days, and 
one which would assuredly bring down on him the wrath 
of the council. But Elizabeth was quite able to manage 
her own affairs, and answered that she had no intention 
of marrying anybody for the present, and was surprised 
at the subject being mentioned so soon after the death 
of her father, for whom she should wear mourning two 
years at least. 

Although Seymour thought highly of his own charms, 
he had a certain sort of prudence and sense, and he saw 
that for the time nothing further could be gained from 
Ehzabeth. He therefore at once turned his attention to 
the rich widow whom the king had formerly torn from 
him, and with whom he felt pretty sure of success. He 
was not mistaken; and deep indeed must have been 
Katharine's love for him, as she consented to throw aside 
all the modesty and good manners for which she was 
famed and to accept him as a husband a fortnight after 
the king's burial, and only four days after he had been 



342 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

refused by Elizabeth, with her knowledge and by her 
advice. 

The marriage seems to have followed soon after, but 
was kept secret for a time. 

It is difi&cult to say whether Mary or Elizabeth was 
more angry when these things came to light. Elizabeth 
had, as we know, been almost a daughter to Katharine, 
but she and queen Mary had always been good friends, and 
many little presents had passed between them. At her 
coronation Katharine had given the princess, only three 
years younger than herself, a splendid bracelet of rubies 
set in gold, and when Mary was living at Hunsdon a 
royal messenger was often to be seen trotting down the 
London road, bearing fur to trim a court train, a new 
French coif for the hair, or even a cheese of a sort which 
Katharine herself had found good eating. Mary accepted 
them all gratefully and gladly, and passed some of her 
spare hours, which were many, in embroidering a cushion 
for the closet of her stepmother. 

And now, in a moment, everything w^as changed, and 
both princesses saw, not only the insult to their father's 
memory in this hasty re-marriage, but also the fact that 
royalty itself was humbled in the conduct of the queen, 
who should have been an example to all. Mary wrote 
at once to her sister, praying her to mark her disapproval 
of the queen's conduct by leaving her house and taking up 
her abode at Hunsdon. Elizabeth, however, though not yet 
fourteen, showed signs of the prudence which marked 
her in after-life, and answered that having been placed at 
Chelsea by order of the king's council, it would not be- 
come her to set herself up against them. Besides, she 
feared to seem ungrateful for the previous kindness of 
the queen. 

But though living under the protection of the queen- 
dowager, either at Chelsea or in the country village of 
Hanworth, Elizabeth had her ow^n servants and oncers of 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 343 

the household, amounting in all to a hundred and twenty 
people. It was very unlucky in every way that the gov- 
erness chosen to be her companion should have been 
her kinswoman, Mrs. Ashley, a good-natured, vulgar- 
minded woman, who was never so happy as when she 
was weaving a mystery. Of course Katharine took care 
that the princess passed many hours in the day in lessons 
from the best tutors that could be found, but still there was 
plenty of time left when the governess, whose duty kept 
her always by the girl's side, could tell her all manner of 
silly stories and encourage her foolish fancies. At length, 
about Whitsuntide 1548, the queen's ill-health put an 
end to this state of things, and Elizabeth was sent down, 
with all her servants, to the castle of Cheshunt, then under 
the command of sir Anthony Denny; and from there she 
wrote a letter to her stepmother, thanking her for the 
great kindness she had ever received from her, and sign- 
ing it 'your humble daughter Ehzabeth.' After this, they 
wrote frequently to each other during the following 'three 
months, which proved to be the last of Katharine's Hfe. 
By the end of the summer she was dead, leaving a little 
daughter behind her, and bequeathing to Elizabeth half 
of the beautiful jewels she possessed. 

Elizabeth's sorrow was great; but when Mrs. Ashley 
asked if she would not write a letter to the widower, now 
baron Sudeley and lord high admiral of England, the 
princess at once refused, saying 'he did not need it.'' He 
did not, indeed! for a very short time after the queen's 
death he came down to see Elizabeth, and to try and 
obtain from her a promise of marriage, which the girl, 
now fifteen, refused to give. But he still continued to 
plot to obtain possession of the princess, and, what he 
valued much more, of her lands. At length his brother 
the protector thought it was time to interfere. The 
admiral was arrested on a charge of high treason, com- 
mitted to the Tower, and executed by order of the coun- 
cil in March 1549. Seymour's downfall brought about 



344 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

that of many others. Mrs. Ashley, her husband, and 
the princess's treasurer Parry, were all thrown into prison, 
on suspicion of having helped the admiral in his schemes 
to marry Elizabeth, and she herself was in deep disgrace 
at Court. For a whole year she was kept as a sort of pris- 
oner at Hatfield, under the watchful eye of sir Robert and 
Lady Tyrwhit, and she would have been very dull indeed 
had it not been for her books. However, as we know, 
Henry had been careful to give his children the best 
teaching, and the celebrated sir John Cheke and William 
Grindall, who had formerly been tutors to Edward and 
Elizabeth, were now replaced by the still more famous 
Roger Ascham. 

Perhaps Elizabeth was not quite so learned as Roger 
Ascham describes her in a letter to an old friend in 
Germany. Tutors sometimes think their favourite pupils 
cleverer than is really the case, and do not always know 
how much they themselves help them in their composi- 
tions or translations. But there is no reason to doubt 
that, like sir Thomas More's daughters, her cousin lady 
Jane Grey, and her early playfellows, the daughters of 
sir Anthony Cooke, Elizabeth understood a number of 
languages and had read an amount of history which would 
astonish the young ladies of the present day. At that time 
Greek was a comparatively new study, though Latin was as 
necessary as French is now, for it was the tongue which all 
educated people could write and speak. The princess, 
according to Ascham, could talk it 'with ease, propriety 
and judgment,' but her Greek, when she tried to express 
herself in it, was only 'pretty good.' It does not strike 
Ascham that during this part of her hfe she cared much 
for music, though she had been fond of it as a child, and, 
by her father's wish, she had then given so much time to it 
that she played very well upon various instruments. Cicero 
and Livy she read with her tutor, and began the day with 
some chapters of the Greek Testament. Afterwards they 
would read two or three scenes of a tragedy of Sophocles, 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 345 

specially chosen by Ascham not only for the beauty of their 
style, but for the lessons of patience and unselfishness 
that they taught — lessons which it is feared Elizabeth did 
not lay greatly to heart. 

Scholar though he was, and writing to another scholar, 
it was not only about Elizabeth's mind that Ascham con- 
cerned himself. The princess, he says, much prefers 
'simple dress to show and splendour; treating with con- 
tempt the fashion of elaborate hair dressing and the wear- 
ing of jewels.' 

We smile as we read his words when we think of the 
queen whom we know. It is very likely that the king's 
council, who heard everything that passed at Hatfield or 
Ashridge, did not allow EHzabeth enough money for fine 
clothes or gold chains; but at that time, and for some 
period after, her garments were made in the plainest style, 
and she wore no ornaments. No sooner, however, did she 
ascend the throne than all this was completely changed, 
and she was henceforth seen only in the magnificent gar- 
ments in which she was frequently painted; and there is 
even an old story, that has found its way into our history 
books, telling us how, after her death, three thousand 
dresses were discovered in her wadrobes, 'as well as a vast 
number of wigs.' 

All this time Somerset the protector had strictly for- 
bidden the king to see his sister or to hear from her. But 
receiving, we may suppose, good reports of her conduct, 
both from Ascham and the Tyrwhits, he though it might be 
well to allow both her and her brother a little more liberty, 
and gave Edward leave to ask Elizabeth to send him 
her portrait, and even to make her a present of Hatfield. 
Elizabeth was delighted to be able once more to exchange 
letters with the young king, and writes him a letter of 
thanks in her best style, to accompany her picture. 

'For the face, I grant I rnight well blush to offer, but 
the mind I shall never be ashamed to present. For though 



346 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

from the face of the picture the colours may fade by 
time, may fade by weather, may be spotted by chance; 
yet the other (her mind) nor Time with her swift wings 
shall overtake, nor the misty clouds with their lowerings 
may darken, nor Chance with her slippery foot may over- 
throw. 

' Of this, although the proof could not be great, because 
the occasions have been but small, notwithstanding as 
a dog hath a day, so may I perchance, have time 
to declare it in deeds, where now I do write them but in 
words.' 

Elizabeth must have been very pleased with herself 
when she read over her letter before sealing it and bind- 
ing it round with silk. Not one of her tutors could 
have expressed his feelings with greater elegance, and 
Edward no doubt agreed with her, though most likely a 
brother of these days, even if he happened to be a king 
or prince, would have burst out laughing before he was 
half through, and have thrown the letter in the fire. 

All that summer, part of which was spent among the 
woods and commons of Ashridge near Berkhamstead, 
Elizabeth hoped in vain to be sent for to Court, but for 
some reason the summons was delayed till March 155 1. 
A messenger in the king's livery arrived one day at the 
house, and the princess was almost beside herself with 
joy as she read the contents of the letter he brought. Then 
she sprang up and gave orders that a new riding dress 
should be got ready, and her favourite horse groomed 
and rubbed down till you could see your face in his skin, 
and her steward himself was bidden to look to the trap- 
pings lest the gold and silver should have got tarnished 
since last the housings were used. And when March 17 
came, she set forth early along the country roads, and 
at the entrance to London was met by a gallant com- 
pany of knights and ladies, waiting to receive her. Oh! 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 347 

what pleasure it was to ride through those narrow streets 
again and to look at the gabled houses, every window and 
gallery of which was thronged with people! Many times 
in after years did Elizabeth make royal progresses through 
the city, but never once was her heart as glad as now. 
She had escaped from the solitude which she hated so 
much, and come back to a life of colour and move- 
ment. 

And so she reached St. James's Palace, and was led to 
her room. 

Here she rested all the next day, while Mary in her 
turn made an entry, surrounded by an escort very differ- 
ent to look upon from Elizabeth's. The princess and 
her ladies were all alike dressed in black, while rosaries 
hung from their girdles and crosses from their necks. 
There was no mistaking the meaning of these signs, 
and though they did honour to Mary's courage, it was 
hardly a civil way of answering her brother's invitation, 
and it irritated the council against her, which there was 
no need to do. 

It was on the day after Mary's entrance that Elizabeth 
again mounted her horse, and in the midst of the company 
of nobles and ladies rode across St. James's Park to the 
palace of Westminster, where the king received her with 
open arms. 

'My sweet sister Temperance,' he called her, with a 
laugh, when he noted the extreme plainness of her dress 
and the total absence of jewels; in these respects a great 
contrast to the ladies in her company. But it is probable 
that in choosing such simple clothes the princess had 
acted from an instinct which told her that by so doing 
she would gain for herself the goodwill of the all-power- 
ful council, with whom she had been, as we know, for 
two years in 'disgrace. And if this was her motive,' she 
had reasoned rightly, for according to her cousin,'lady 
Jane Grey's tutor, 'her maidenly apparel made the noble- 



348 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

men's wives and daughters ashamed to be dressed Hke 
peacocks, being more moved with her most virtuous ex- 
ample than with all that ever Paul or Peter wrote touch- 
ing that matter.' 

Perhaps the good Dr. Aylmer did not know much about 
the hearts of women, or the influence of a fashion that 
is set by a princess. In any case, the change in the dresses 
— and feelings — of the noble ladies did not last long, 
for in a few months we find them all, Elizabeth excepted, 
'with their hair frounsed, curled and double curled,' to 
greet Mary of Guise, the queen-dowager of Scotland, 
who passed through England on her way from France. 
Edward, now fourteen, gave her a royal reception, and we 
may be sure that he would not allow his 'dearest sister' 
to remain in the background. When the fetes were over, 
the princess returned to Hatfield, triumphant in knowing 
that she had gained her end, and established her place in 
the affections of the people. 

The household formed for Elizabeth was suitable to 
her rank, and she had a large income on which to sup- 
port it. From an account book that she has left behind 
her it is easy to see that even at this time of her life she 
was beginning to suffer from the stinginess which, curiously 
enough, was always at war with her love of splendour. 
She hardly spent anything on herself, and only gave away 
a few pounds a year — not a great deal for a princess 
with no one but herself to think of! 

Meanwhile grave events were taking place in Edward's 
Court. The earl of Warwick, soon to be duke of North- 
umberland, had long hated Somerset, and now con- 
trived to get him committed for the second time to the 
Tower. Somerset is said to have implored Elizabeth, 
whom a short time before he had treated so harshly, to 
beseech Edward to grant him pardon; but the princess 
replied that owing to her youth her words would be held 
of little value, and that, besides, those about the king 'took 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 349 

good care to prevent her from approaching the Court.' 
This was quite true, and whether she wished to save 
Somerset or not, certain it is that she had no power 
to do so. 

So, in January 1552, the protector's head fell on 
Tower Hill, and Northumberland, who succeeded to his 
place, began secretly to prepare a marriage between his 
youngest son, lord Guildford Dudley, with the king's 
beautiful and learned young cousin, lady Jane Grey, 
whose grandmother, the duchess of Suffolk, was Henry 
Vni.'s youngest sister. Edward's own health was failing 
rapidly, and often after being present at the council, or 
at some state banquet, he was too tired to care about 
anything, so that it was easy, as Elizabeth had said, to 
keep his two sisters from him. Northumberland even 
managed to persuade the boy that it was his duty to 
pass over Mary, the natural heir to the crown, on account 
of her religion, and in this design he was greatly helped by 
the princess's foolish behaviour. As for Elizabeth, the 
case was more difficult. At first he thought of arranging 
a marriage for her with a Danish prince, and when 
this failed he fell back on some Acts of Parliament 
excluding her from the throne which had never been 
revoked, although, of course, if Elizabeth had no right to 
succeed to the crown on account of her father's previous 
marriage (as some now said), the same thing applied to 
Edward. 

The object of all these plots and plans concocted by 
Northumberland was plain to be seen: it was to have his 
daughter-in-law, lady Jane Grey, declared heir to the 
throne; and he so worked on the king, who was too weak 
to oppose him, that Edward was induced, shortly be- 
fore he died (on July 6, 1553), to appoint his cousin his 
successor. 

As frequently happened in those times, the fact of the 
king's death was kept a secret for some days, and during 



350 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

this period Northumberland tried to get both the prin- 
cesses into his power by sending letters to say that Edward 
greatly wished to s'ee them once more. If they had come 
— and Mary nearly fell a victim to his treachery — the 
Tower would have speedily been their lodging, and prob- 
ably the scaffold their portion, but they happily escaped 
the snare. Next, he tried to buy the consent of Elizabeth, 
promising both money and lands if she would give up her 
rights. In this, however, he was foiled by the princess, 
who answered, with tact, that while Mary was alive she 
had no rights to resign. 

While this was going on the sixteen-year-old Jane was 
forced by her father-in-law into a position she was quite 
unfitted for, and which she very much disliked. She 
loved her young husband dearly, and was perfectly happy 
with him and her books, taking no part or interest in pol- 
itics. Suddenly, she was visited at Sion House near Brent- 
ford, to which she had gone at her father-in-law's request, 
by a number of powerful nobles of Northumberland's 
party, who informed her that the king was dead, and had 
left his kingdom to her, so that the Protestant religion 
might be well guarded. Then all the gentlemen present 
fell on their knees before the bewildered girl and swore 
to die in her defence. 

Jane was overwhelmed. She grasped hastily at a chair 
that was near her, and then sank fainting to the ground. 
The duchess of Northumberland, who was present with 
some other ladies, dashed water in her face and loosened 
her stiff, tight dress, and soon she grew better, and was 
able to sit up. Rising slowly to her feet she looked at 
the little group before her, and said: 'My lords, sure 
never was queen so little fit as I. Yet, if so it must be, 
and the right to reign is indeed mine, God will give me the 
grace and power to govern to His glory and the good of 
the realm!' 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 351 

Little heed did those who heard her so submissively 
take of her words. She had done what they wished, and 
that was all that mattered: the rest was their affair. So, 
leaving Jane to her own thoughts, they departed and went 
their own ways. A day or two later, on a blazing July 
afternoon, their victim was taken in a barge from Chelsea 
to the Tower, and there, mounting the stairs, her train 
carried by her grandmother the duchess of Suffolk, once 
queen of France, the crown was held out to her by the 
royal treasurer. Then, and then only, the death of Edward 
was publicly announced, and a letter, which, it was pre- 
tended, had been wTitten by Jane, was distributed among 
the citizens of London, stating the grounds for setting 
aside the princesses and putting the granddaughter of 
Henry's younger sister in their place. 

It did not take long for Northumberland to find out 
that he had laid his plans without reckoning with the 
will of the people or the courage of the princesses. The 
country had seen through him, and even gave him credit 
for more evil than he had actually done, for a rumour 
went abroad that he had poisoned Edward to serve his 
own ends. This adventurer, high as he had risen, should 
never dictate to Englishmen. Why, most likely even 
lady Jane herself, or 'queen' as he would have the world 
call her, would come to a bad end when it suited him! 
No! No! No Northumberland for them! and Mary's 
rehgion and cold, shy manners were forgotten, and gentle- 
men called together their friends and followers and marched 
towards London. 

Northumberland was no match, for them, and knew 
it; and what was more, he knew that he had no ally in 
Jane herself. His energy was not of the kind that increases 
with difficulties, and when he heard that Jane's grand- 
father, the duke of Suffolk, had signed with his own hand 
the order for the proclamation of queen Mary, he rightly 



352 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

judged that all was lost, and tried to escape. But it was 
too late, and next day he was charged with high treason 
and lodged in the Tower. 

Nobody cares what became of Northumberland, as he 
only got what he deserved; but every one must mourn 
for the Nine Days Queen, who never could have been a 
danger either to Mary or Elizabeth. 

July w^as not yet over when EHzabeth, now nearly twxnty, 
was bidden to leave Hatfield and ride by her sister's side 
in her state entry into the city. So far the two sisters 
had always got on fairly well together; still, Elizabeth 
misdoubted the temper of the Catholic party, and rode 
through the lanes and over the commons with an escort 
of two thousand armed men. That night she lay at 
Somerset House (now her own property), on the banks of 
the Thames, and the next morning went out to Wanstead, 
on the North Road down which Mary would come. 
It had not taken the princess long to discover that at 
present she herself ran no risks, so she dismissed half 
her guard, and with five hundred gentlemen dressed in 
white and green, and a large number of ladies, she passed 
smiling through the crowded streets, which rang with 
shouts of welcome. No one seemed to remember 
the king, who still lay unburied; but so much had hap- 
pened since he died, that everybody, even including his 
'sweet sister Temperance,' had forgotten him for the 
moment. 

The first breach between Mary and her subjects, 
and also her sister, was not long in coming. The 
ways and services of the old religion were speedily restored, 
and EHzabeth was given to understand that she was expected 
to attend mass. This she refused to do, and thereby 
increased her popularity tenfold; but she seems to have 
allowed Mary secretly to think that it was possible she 
might some day change her mind, and, in order to keep 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 353 

her sister in a good humour, requested to be given Catholic 
books to read and priests to teach her. 

In this way matters went on till September, when Mary's 
coronation took place. Elizabeth drove the day be- 
fore, in the state procession to Westminster, in a coach 
drawn by six white horses decorated with white and 
silver to match her dress, Anne of Cleves being seated 
by her side. All through the ceremonies she was given 
her proper place as the heiress to the throne, and even 
publicly prayed for. 

Unluckily, this happy state of things did not last long, 
and the different views of religion held by the two sisters 
were embittered by many whose interest it was that there 
should be constant quarrels between them. A plot was 
set on foot to marry Elizabeth to her cousin, Courtenay 
earl of Devon — who had already been refused as a 
husband by Mary herself. This was encouraged by 
Noailles, the French ambassador, for his own purposes; 
but Elizabeth, who feared her friends more than her foes, 
sought to escape from it all, and to retire at once to 
Ashridge in Hertfordshire. 

Here she received a letter from Mary begging her to 
come at once to St. James's Palace; but, knowing as she 
did that sir Thomas Wyatt was doing his best to stir up 
a revolt against the queen, Elizabeth thought it more 
prudent to make the most of an illness under which she 
was suffering, and remain where she was. She like- 
wise put Ashridge in a state to stand a siege, should it 
be necessary, filling the castle with provisions and armed 
men. 

It was Wyatt 's rebellion that sealed the fate of lady 
Jane Grey and her husband, and made Elizabeth tremble 
for her own head. The Nine Days Queen had hitherto 
been warmly defended by Mary herself, in spite of the 
assurances, which had been so frequently whispered in 
her ears, that her throne would never be safe during 
24 



354 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

the life of such a claimant. Now, with the successes of 
Wyatt among the men of Kent, these whispers became 
louder, and this time Mary Hstened to them. Not that 
she believed her young cousin to have any share in Wyatt 's 
treasonable schemes; she knew her too well for that. But 
as long as she lived she would be used as a handle for all 
plotters, so, with deep and real regret, Mary signed the 
warrant that was placed before her, and within a few 
days Jane was beheaded in the square of the Tower, 
the only woman who was not executed on Tower Hill, 
She and her husband had never met since they had been 
arrested; but now Mary sent a messenger to lady Jane, 
granting permission for a farewell interview. But lady 
Jane refused. 'What,' she asked, Svould be gained by 
their bidding each other farewell on earth, when they 
would so shortly meet in heaven?' It may be that she 
feared for his courage more than her own, for she stood 
unseen at her window while he was led forth to the scaffold 
on Tower Hill, and remained there till his body was brought 
back. Then her own turn came, and cheerfully she left 
her cell and walked the few steps that lay between her 
prison and the green. Here she paused in front of the 
block, and turning, spoke to those who were gathered 
round : 

'The plot of the duke of Northumberland was none 
of my seeking,' she said, 'but by the counsel of those who 
appeared to have better understanding of the matter than 
I. As to the desire of such dignity by me, I wash my 
hands thereof before God and all you Christian people 
this day.' 

After that, she begged those present to help her with 
their prayers, and repeated a psalm, and then, kneeling, 
laid her head on the block. 

If lad)' Jane was the most important victim of all these 
conspiracies, she was by no means the only one, for Wyatt 
and other leaders were shortly to pay the same penalty, 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 355 

not, however, without declaring that all they had done was 
with the knowledge and consent of the princess EHzabeth, 
and of Courtenay earl of Devon. Mary had no difficulty 
in believing this; Elizabeth's own conduct had for the 
last few months given rise to suspicions, so a company of 
gentlemen, headed by the princess's kinsman lord William 
Howard, and including a certain Dr. Wendy, who had 
formerly attended Henry VIII. , were sent down to Ash- 
ridge to see how far the princess's illness was real, and 
to bring her to London if possible. It was ten o'clock at 
night when they arrived, and EHzabeth refused to admit 
them; but they politely insisted, and she was obliged to 
open her door. 

No trace of guilt or fear, or indeed of anything but 
impatience, could be read in her face, as the queen's 
messengers entered her apartment. 

'Is the haste such,' she said, 'that it might not have 
pleased you to come in the morning?' 

The ambassadors held it wiser not to state how great 
'the haste' was, but they only answered that they were 
sorry to see her grace in such a case, referring, of course, 
to her supposed illness. 

'/ am not glad at all to see you at this time of night,' 
she replied; and went on to say that 'she feared her weak- 
ness to be so great that she should not be able to travel 
and to endure the journey without peril of life, and there- 
fore desired some longer respite until she had recovered 
her strength. 

In this matter neither Howard her great-uncle, nor 
her old friend Wendy the doctor, agreed with her. It is 
true that anxiety for herself, if not sorrow for the fate of 
lady Jane Grey, about whom she seems to have cared 
nothing, had thrown her into some sort of fever, but it 
was quite plain that there was nothing to prevent her 
undertaking the short journey. In order, however, that 
no risks might be run the thirty-three miles that lay 
between Ashridge and Westminster were divided into five 



356 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

stages, and every night she was to sleep in some gentle- 
man's house. A week later she started in a Htter, and 
when, several days after, she entered Aldgate, the cur- 
tains were thrown back at her bidding, so that the people, 
who had always loved her, might be touched by the 
sight of her thin pale face. But well or ill, when the 
moment came in which courage was needed, EKzabeth 
was always herself, and her bows and smiles betrayed no 
fear as, dressed in white, she was carried through the 
city, with an escort of scarlet-coated gentlemen riding in 
front. 

Rooms were given her in Whitehall, and here she hoped 
to see the queen, and be able to convince her of the 
innocence she so loudly proclaimed to everyone. But to 
her great disappointment and secret terror, Mary refused 
her an interview, and ordered her to be taken at once to 
the palace of Westminster and placed in an apartment 
which had no entrance except through the guard-room. 
A certain number of personal attendants were allowed her, 
and through them she heard with dismay that Courte- 
nay had been lodged in the Tower, and every day was 
examined for some time as to his share in Wyatt's 
conspiracy. 

For three weeks EHzabeth waited, not knowing exactly 
how much the council knew, but remembering, with dread, 
two notes which she had written with her own hand to 
Wyatt. She guessed truly that all the weight of Spain 
would be thrown in the balance against her, for the em- 
peror Charles V. had neither forgotten nor forgiven the 
divorce of his aunt, and, besides, his son Philip was already 
betrothed to the queen. 

At last, one Saturday, ten members of the council vis- 
ited her, and told her that a barge was in waiting at the 
stairs, which would take her to the Tower. Elizabeth 
received the new^s without flinching, though she felt as if 
the nails were being knocked into her cofhn, but begged 
permission to finish a letter to the queen which she had 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 357 

just begun. This the council could not well refuse; but 
the princess made her letter so very long that the tide 
ran out too far for her to embark, and as Sunday was a 
day when no work was done, her gaolers were obliged to 
wait until Monday. 

On Monday, however, even Elizabeth could invent no 
more pretexts for delay, and entered her barge with as 
good a grace as might be. But when the rowers shipped 
their oars at the Traitors' Gate, she objected that it was 
no entrance for her, who was innocent. 

'You have no choice,' said one of the lords who was 
with her, and stooped to lay his cloak as a carpet on the 
muddy steps. With an angry gesture Elizabeth dashed it 
aside, and sat down on a wet stone, as if she intended to 
sit there for ever. The lieutenant of the Tower, who was 
awaiting his prisoner at the top, prayed her to come in 
out of the rain and cold, which at last she consented to 
do, and was conducted by him to her prison, a room that 
led only into the lieutenant's own house on one side, and 
a narrow outside gallery on the other, used by the pris- 
oners for air and exercise. Here Elizabeth's suitor, sir 
Thomas Seymour, had been lodged before his execution, 
and here Arabella Stuart would be confined, in years that 
were yet to come. 

For two months Elizabeth's imprisonment lasted, though 
the extreme strictness with which she was kept was after- 
wards relaxed, and she was suffered to walk in a little 
garden under a strong escort, and to receive flowers from 
the children belonging to the servants about the Tower, 
with whom she had made friends. At first she had, like 
Courtenay, constantly to undergo examinations as to her 
guilt, but she somehow managed to gain over the earl of 
Arundel, hitherto one of her most bitter enemies, and 
henceforth she had no warmer partisan. She seems to 
have answered the questions put to her with her usual 
cleverness, as the Spanish ambassador writes that though 
'they had enough matter against Courtenay to make his 



858 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

punishment certain, they had not yet been able to obtain 
matter sufficient for Elizabeth's conviction,' partly owing 
to the fact that several witnesses were in hiding. 

It was in May that the queen sent an unexpected sum- 
mons to Elizabeth that she was to join her at Richmond, 
where she was passing the Whitsun holidays; and how 
beautiful the flowers and trees must have looked in the 
eyes of the prisoner, accustomed for so many weeks to 
nothing but the walls of the Tower, with the bitter mem- 
ories they contained! She did not stay there long, how- 
.ever, for the queen, irritated at Elizabeth's firm refusal 
to marry the prince of Savoy, sent her in a few days 
to the castle of Woodstock, with sir Henry Bedingfield as 
her gaoler. 

On the road, according to the old chroniclers, she more 
than once tried her favourite trick of gaining time by 
delaying her arrival. At one place where she was to 
spend the night she was anxious to have a match at 
chess with her host, and another day she declared that 
her clothes and hair had* suffered so much from a storm 
that she must positively enter a house they were passing 
in order to set them straight. But Bedingfield was not 
easy to dupe, and poHtely insisted on continuing their 
way. 

'Whenever I have a prisoner who requires to be safely 
and straitly kept, I shall send him to you,' she said, laugh- 
ing, when four years after he attended her first Court as 
queen. 

At Woodstock Elizabeth remained till 1555, writing 
sad poems about her captivity and doing large pieces of 
needlework; but towards Christmas a welcome change 
was in store for her, as Mary, who had been married in 
July to Philip of Spain, now sent for her to Hampton 
Court. 

Even here her life as a prisoner was not yet over, for 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 359 

she was shut up in her rooms for a week, and never once 
saw the queen. At length, late one night, she was bid- 
den to Mary's room, and there they had a long talk. Eliz- 
abeth was most careful to do and say nothing to vex her 
sister, and seems to have succeeded, for she stayed as a 
welcome guest in the palace for some months, taking part 
in all the amusements, and receiving, not at all unwill- 
ingly, the attentions of prince Philibert of Savoy, though 
she never meant to marry him. With Philip she appears 
to have been on the most friendly terms, and at a great 
tournament held just after Christmas she occupied a 
place next him and the queen. Altogether, as the fears 
for her own safety gradually melted away, she greatly 
enjoyed herself, and pleased Mary by sometimes attending 
the services in her own private chapel, decked out, we are 
told on one occasion, in white satin and pearls. Early 
in the spring Elizabeth returned to Woodstock, bearing 
with her a splendid diamond, worth four thousand ducats, 
the gift of her brother-in-law. 

But no sooner had she gone back to Woodstock than 
rumours of another plot spread abroad, and as usual 
Elizabeth was supposed to be concerned in it. It does 
not seem at all likely that the accusation was true, but 
Mary thought it safer to have her under her own eye, and 
sent for her a second time to the palace. Elizabeth must 
have satisfied her to some extent that she was guiltless in 
the matter, for Mary gave her a beautiful ring, worth 
seven hundred crowns, and allowed her to go to Hatfield, 
though she placed with her, as some check on her actions, 
one sir Thomas Pope, with whom EKzabeth lived very 
pleasantly. 

The story of the next three years is much the same: 
repeatedly plots were discovered, and in all of them Eliza- 
beth was accused of taking part — probably quite falsely. 
Still, it was natural -that the queen should be rather sus- 



360 TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 

picious of her, though she often invited her to court, and 
Ehzabeth did her best to set her mind at ease by frequently- 
attending Mass in her company. Indeed, she was the less 
likely to be engaged in any schemes against her sister 
as it was quite plain that Mary's life was fast drawing to 
an end. When free to follow her own way the princess 
buried herself in books, reading Demosthenes at Hatfield 
with Roger Ascham, besides studying Italian under Cas- 
tiglione. They all write enthusiastically of her cleverness, 
but when CastigHone remarks that she had not only 'a 
singular wit,' but a 'marvellous meek stomach,' we feel 
either how great was Elizabeth's power of deceiving — 
or how bad was her judgment. 

During these three years also suitors were frequent, 
and among them her old lover, Philibert of Savoy, was 
the most pressing. Courtenay, to whom she had for 
political reasons once betrothed herself, had died in exile 
at Pavia, so, as far as she herself went, Ehzabeth was 
free to marry whom she chose; but though all her hfe 
she liked the excitement and attentions which went hand 
in hand with a marriage, when it came to the point she 
could not make up her mind to forfeit her liberty. It 
was also clear to her that if, during Mary's hfetime, she 
took a foreign husband, and went to live abroad, her 
chance of sitting on the throne of England was gone for 
ever. 

At this period Ehzabeth made up for the 'Seven Lean 
Years' of her Puritanical garments by clothing herself 
and her suite in the most splendid of raiment, for which 
she constantly ran into debt. During the last year of 
Mary's reign she was constantly in and about London, 
and once we have notice of a visit of the queen herself 
to Hatfield, when the choir boys of St. Paul's sang and 
Elizabeth played on the virginals. Soon, however, the 
queen was too weak for any such journeys. Philip was 
away, engaged in the war between France and Spain, and 
Mary remained at home, to struggle with her difficulties 



TROUBLES OF PRINCESS ELIZABETH 361 

as best she might. She knew quite well she had not long 
to live, and declared Elizabeth her successor, entrusting 
to her maid of honour, Jane Dormer, the crown jewels, 
which were to be delivered to the princess. To these she 
added three petitions: that Elizabeth would be kind to 
her servants; that she would pay her sister's private debts, 
and that she would support the old faith, now established 
by law; which, of course, Elizabeth could not do, or her 
throne would have been instantly forfeit. Then Mary 
died, knowing that she had failed in all she had attempted; 
and, amidst the welcoming shouts of the English people, 
the Elizabeth whom you all know was proclaimed queen. 



FINIS 



SEP 24 WOS 



